


The Artist

by lazarus_girl



Category: Skins (UK)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-01
Updated: 2012-01-14
Packaged: 2017-12-06 09:48:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 67,443
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/734298
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lazarus_girl/pseuds/lazarus_girl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>"Set down the canvas and take me instead.”</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [displacedaway](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=displacedaway).



> AU ish. Alternates between Emily and Naomi's perspective. Set mainly during the 3x04 “Pandora” to 3x06 “Naomi” time frame, but also references 3x09 "Katie and Emily.' Title, quote and inspiration taken from '[The Artist.](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UgeLVdrtvkE)' by Sara Bareilles. For the accompanying fanmix, click [here](http://8tracks.com/lazarusgirl/touching-at-a-distance).
> 
> Originally posted at my Livejournal. Unbeta'd, so all mistakes are my own.

***

_”Would you consider me for thoughts unsaid?”_

***

She’d get it. She’s sure of it, but what she isn’t so sure of is whether Naomi would actually do it.

Things have been strange between them since Panda’s party, and even though she’d fucking love her sister and Effy until the end of time for spiking the brownies that lead to Naomi being all relaxed and open and looking even more fucking beautiful and kissable than usual. The kiss, _kisses_ , were just beyond good, well beyond the one they’d shared before. She’d never look at a bouncy castle in the same way again, mostly because she’d never been on one drunk or high or rolled on top of a willing Naomi and kissed her face off. Tongues were involved, _that_ she can remember, would be burned into her brain until her dying day. Whatever else she said or did is a complete and utter blur.

The fact they kissed had fuck all to do with the booze or the MDMA, because really, she’d come down a bit by then, and maybe Naomi had too; but they haven’t talked about it since, so she has idea how Naomi feels about it all. It’s just another thing she’s afraid to ask. As for herself, she hated how the whole episode felt in the cold light of day, not regret exactly, but the faint idea that it might have been another mistake – the last in a long line where Naomi’s concerned.

They were getting along – less awkwardly than before – but really, she’s taking the piss thinking she can just waltz up and ask things of Naomi like they were proper mates. She wasn’t sure _what_ they were, but she knows it’s not anything near that.

A certainty in a complete sea of doubts.

***

With her portfolio stuck under her arm, she keeps her gaze fixed steadily on her goal in the near distance. Like always, she finds her easily within the mass of students filtering up and down the corridor, her bleached hair makes her stand out – it’s probably the reason why she does it – and like always, Emily feels her world slow and then stop completely, transfixed as she watches Naomi switch round her books, pausing only to tuck a stray lock of hair behind her ear. She slams her locker closed, frowning at some lad who passes.

“Perfect,” she breathes, momentarily lost, leaning a little against the nearest locker.

Naomi even looks pretty when she frowns.

Her portfolio is one piece short, and she’s in need of a model. Desperate need. Greg – their completely pretentious git of an art teacher, who she’d hate if he wasn’t so amazingly talented – is breathing down her neck and she still has no idea how the hell she’s going to come out with something decent. Even though she’s very much his favourite – she secretly likes the attention, likes the way he always stands next to something she’s just completed, tilts his head and ponders for a moment, before pointing out what he admires – her desire to impress was almost debilitating and her luck was going to run out soon. If she’d been clever, she’d have asked someone else, and it would’ve taken all of ten fucking seconds. More importantly if that person had said no, she wouldn’t want to find the nearest roof and chuck herself off, but of course, it wasn’t _just_ anyone. Clearly a glutton for punishment, she’d decided – two whole weeks ago – that Naomi would be her subject. Her model. Her muse.

God, she loved the sound of it, loved the thought of it even more. The Edie Sedgwick to her Andy Warhol. So, the metaphor was a bit mixed, but it didn’t really matter, it was the principle. Besides, it wasn’t entirely unfounded, Naomi did look a bit like Edie sometimes, especially when she’d go a bit overboard on the eyeliner and mascara, which just made her eyes look even bluer. A blue they didn’t have a name for on those posh paint charts her mum was always looking at.

***

The irony hasn’t escaped her, of course, it’s silly to even be contemplating it, but more and more, she’s found herself thinking about it during classes, and not just the art ones. Endless minutes given over to how this or that pose would be more beautiful, how she’d finally be able to capture what she saw every time she looked at her from the very moment they’d laid eyes on each other in middle school. She couldn’t have picked a more stubborn person to ask if she tried, save for Naomi’s supermodel namesake. Given how guarded she is about absolutely everything, Emily guessed that posing for a life drawing wouldn’t be very high on Naomi’s to-do list. Ever. But, she’s become oddly fixated by it, wondering if she can actually get her to do it, and achieve something. She’s tired of landscapes, flowers and stupid bits of half-eaten fruit. She wants more.

It’s probably why she’s taken so long, why she’s stupidly rehearsed this conversation twenty-odd times today already. Thinking that it’d be much less crushing if she was prepared, she imagined every outcome, from a flat out no (which was the most obvious, just to prepare herself yet again for the rejection) to an emphatic yes (not likely, unless hell was about to freeze over and she’d been left well and truly out of the loop). In truth, the time for pleasantries was well and truly over, and she’d have just have to stop being so fucking stupid and just ask her.

Taking a deep breath, she begins to weave through the other students, offering apologies whenever bumps into someone. In fact, she’s so busy apologising that she doesn’t notice when that person is Naomi, and her portfolio falls from her grasp, its contents spilling out all over the floor, and everything she wants to say goes along with it.

“Watch where you’re fucking going!”

“Fuck sake!” she sighs, watching her coursework scatter across the corridor. She turns finally to see who’s collided with her, meeting with Naomi’s gaze.

Fucking marvellous. She hadn’t planned for this one.

“Oh fuck, sorry Emily… Oh, your work, shit!” Naomi softens immediately, and throws her an apologetic look.

Now they’re both scrabbling round the floor, attempting to gather bits of paper, some of which have already been trodden on thanks to her ever considerate peers. Tossers, the lot of them, Emily thinks, when a boy steps over her, not even apologising.

“It’s OK, it’s not your fault,” she busies herself with the task of picking up her drawings, glad of the distraction to bury herself in and hide her embarrassment.

How did she manage to turn everything into such a fucking disaster? She could barely hold a decent conversation with Naomi without something going wrong, how in the hell was she going to draw her. Naked. Being in front of her clothed was bad enough.

She was impossibly beautiful close-up. It was almost painful to look at her. Achingly beautiful, that was better, that was truer. Those amazingly blue eyes, her perfect mouth and God, that hair, proper peroxide, like some old screen siren.

Oh fucking hell…she was staring. Openly staring.

“Are they ruined?” Naomi asks, turning one of the drawings toward her.

“Well, that depends on your perspective of art,” she gives little chuckle, seeing a familiar smirk on Naomi’s lips.

“Size nine shoe prints are all the rage in London you know.”

“Of course, now I’ll fit in nicely.”

“One shoe away from the Turner prize, I’m sure,” Naomi smiles, genuinely this time, and Emily realises it’s the first time she’s seen her do it … well, in a long time.

She laughs, but it dies quickly. Looking down, she realises that they’ve both gone for the same sketch. Their hands are touching. Her pulse quickens, heart ramming in her chest, seemingly forcing its way up to her throat. She almost forgets to breathe. They lock eyes for a moment, and there’s a flicker of something in Naomi’s eyes that she can’t quite place, can’t even think of naming.

She grows hot, imagining her face looks as red as her hair.

Naomi blinks and the moment’s broken. She relinquishes the sketch, not wanting to fight her for it; she’s made a big enough show of herself as it was. Instead, she gathers up the others hurriedly, standing back up again. Now the drawing is the last thing she can think of. Greg fucking Powell can go fuck himself. She’ll fail. At this rate, she’ll get a bloody ulcer before she gets an A-level.

***

The next few seconds pass with an agonising slowness. She sighs, defeated. It never lasts, she always manages to ruin it, and most of the time; she doesn’t know it’s ruined until after the event, except for on rare occasions like this where it’s painfully fucking obvious.

“These are really good, Ems.”

“What?” she turns, her stomach fluttering at Naomi’s use of her nickname, not quite believing her ears. “I mean, they are?”

“Yeah, I’m no critic, but from what I’ve seen, most people haven’t got past the stick man stage!”

It’s not quite true, there are some good people in her class who are much better than her, that live, eat and breathe the whole thing, all day every day; that want to have exhibitions and sell paintings. She’s never thought that she could, and hadn’t really considered she was anywhere near as good as them. In truth, she’s always thought the class was just a bit of fun, a break from the academic grind. No one at home really takes an active interest: her mother continually insisted it was frivolous and a waste of time, which could be better spent doing something more productive. Katie thought it was just stupid and a cop-out, an easy lesson – of course, she was a fucking _paragon_ of virtue, she studied proper things. Even her dad was somewhat detached from it, despite being the only one happy talk to her and look through her sketches early on. Lately, his enthusiasm had waned. It means Naomi’s praise comes as something of a shock. A nice shock, but a shock nonetheless.

“Thanks,” she fiddles pointlessly with the handle of her portfolio. Anything not Naomi-shaped was suddenly endlessly fascinating.

“Who’s this, anyway?” Naomi asks, turning the sketch toward her.

It’s her first attempt at a life study, a girl in the park on a bench, at some weird hour of the afternoon, smoking a cigarette. Her hair’s like a bird’s nest, her make-up smudged. She’s dressed in a leather jacket and a ballerina tutu. It was pink. The sketch doesn’t reflect it, because it’s in charcoal, but it’s what she’ll always remember.

“Oh I dunno, I just saw her, I thought she looked cool, so I drew it … her,” she replies, with a shrug, changing her portfolio to the other hand. She’s trying for nonchalant, but she just sounds like she doesn’t want to answer Naomi’s questions.

It’s getting worse by the second.

“You just sat there and … just like that?” Naomi regards the drawing again, looking genuinely impressed.

She’s never seen her this enthused about anything that wasn’t politics, the environment or literature. She remains silent, her eyes trained on Naomi’s profile. The look on her face was priceless, she was in awe. In awe of her, Emily Fitch, who no one really noticed because she wasn’t loud, or pretty or popular like her sister. She has to remember to close her mouth before Naomi looks and sees it hanging open.

“Yeah. It just sort of happened,” there’s a hint of smugness in her own voice she’s never heard before.

“That’s cool,” Naomi gives a nod, passes her the drawing. “Anyway, I’ve got to get going. Sorry about before. I hope nothing’s damaged.” She picks up her bag, slamming her locker closed. She turns on her heels, headed toward the stairs.

***

Her window of opportunity is diminishing by the second. It sends her into a panic.

It’s now or never. Fuck it.

She gathers her belongings quickly, shoving past people with less thought, and catches up with Naomi on the atrium.

“Could I? Erm ...”

Oh fantastic, now she’s lost the ability to speak.

“Could you?” Naomi tilts her head, eyebrow quirked.

“Erm, I need to ask you … it’s silly really, I mean … you won’t do it.”

“Come on, Ems, spit it out!” Naomi smirks, switching her bag from one shoulder to other.

“Would … Could I draw you?”

Finally.

Naomi steps back, frowning, “What do you mean, draw me?”

“A life drawing ...” it’s so quiet, she couldn’t have heard, but Emily feels so ridiculous she can’t bear to carry on with it. Naomi just looks at her, so it forces her into it. “Except, it has to be different,” she adds, quieter still, focussing on the poster immediately opposite them.

Student debt was indeed an important issue to ponder.

“Different as in?” Naomi flicks her hair back, stopping it from falling into her eyes.

She feels her stomach lurch, in the same strange way she gets when her dad goes too fast down a hill in his Fitch Fitness van.

“Naked … Without clothes.”

“I know what naked means, Emily,” Naomi laughs, but then grows serious. “But why? Why me?”

She hasn’t planned for this either. In almost every imagined instance, Naomi had answered with an incredulous ‘what the fuck are you on?’ before bursting into laughter or storming off. She’s dying to say ‘because you’re beautiful, because there’d be no one better,’ but that’s not what comes out.

“Well, Panda won't sit still, Katie would be like drawing me, and Eff would be like ...” she tails off, hating how she’s just inadvertently made it sound like Naomi was an afterthought when it couldn’t be further from the truth. She didn’t ask them because she didn’t want them.

“Drawing a line?” Naomi laughs.

At least someone was enjoying this. The whole thing was turning out to be even more fucking torturous than she thought it would.

“I ... no … yes,” she laughs, despite herself.

“So,” Naomi leans back on the atrium railing, “I'm last on your list? Nice, Fitch.”

This is more like what she imagined.

“No, no... I mean, I didn't think you'd want to,” Emily steps forward, suddenly panicked that she’s offended her.

“I don't,” she takes a breath, “I mean, the last thing I want,” she gestures to a group of boys stood below them, “are tossers like that seeing my tits and my muff, Ems. I’ll have to respectfully decline.”

So much for the practice. It still hurts, she’s still embarrassed and she still wishes she’d never thought of it in the first place.

“It's OK. I'll think of something,” she tries not to sound massively disappointed and fails miserably.

“Draw a tree, perhaps, you like all that, don’t you?” Naomi offers, she gestures vaguely to a plant in the corner by Harriet’s office. It’s plastic.

Ah yes. The delicate flower picture for the delicate flower. If she were in less of a foul mood she’d be intrigued by the fact that Naomi actually knows something about her that she hasn’t herself imparted.

“They aren't as pretty as you.”

It escapes her lips before she realises and she screws her eyes closed, starting to walk off before she can ruin her life anymore. She curses inwardly, hoping to God she hasn’t heard. “Fucking hell.”

Naomi catches up with her. “What?”

“They aren't as interesting,” she covers badly, but Naomi seems to take the bait, the beginnings of a smile forms on her lips.

It disappears fast. Naomi has that all too familiar look of fear in her eyes. She’d said too much. She’d crossed that invisible, ever-moving, never concrete line they placed between themselves after the incident at middle school.

“Oh… I … it’s the whole naked thing, really …”

“Naomi, it’s fine really.”

She can’t stand it now, can’t bear to be next to her.

“It’s not fine, Emily. I feel shit now,” Naomi sighs, blocking her path so she can’t move.

***

This had to stop. Rudeness and meanness she could stand, she was trained for, she’d endured seventeen years of it from Katie, so it was practically normal behaviour, but niceness, kindness and warmth, no fucking way. Every attempt she makes at a reply falls flat before it can make it out of her mouth, so she’s stood looking dumbly at Naomi, who’s just looking back at her, growing more confused by the second.

“Is it really going to fuck things up for you?” Naomi asks, putting a hand on her forearm. It takes all her will not to yank it away, and even more not to pull Naomi roughly to her and kiss her.

It was better before Panda’s party, now she was reminded, painfully reminded of what she’s been missing. She’d gotten a taste of it, and it was all too tempting and all too easy to go there again. The fact that Naomi was an incredibly good kisser didn’t help her weak resolve in the slightest.

“No, no, not at all,” she shakes her head vigorously, hoping to reinforce the point.

Blatant fucking lies. Greg would make her life a misery. He was already moaning that she needed to challenge herself that she needed to step out of her comfort zone and ‘do something real.’ Well, here she fucking was, the farthest she could be from her comfort zone and reality was well and truly biting. Hard.

“I’ll see you later,” she meant to say it to Naomi, but it ends up being addressed to the marbled flooring.

Before she can dig herself any deeper, the bell goes, and Naomi lets go of her arm. She gets about ten steps, almost down at the top of the stairs before she has the urge to turn back around. When she does, she sees Naomi hasn’t moved an inch. Instead, she comes back to her, bridging the gap between them.

It’s almost too close for comfort.

“Look, Ems, fuck knows why, but …” she sighs. “You must have caught me at a weak moment,” she pauses, pursing her lips closed, biting down on her bottom one slightly.

She can’t help but think of them kissing in Pandora’s living room; how that was also a moment of weakness too. Weakness of a different kind.

“I’ll do it, OK?!”

“What?” she flounders for a moment, mouth agape.

“Don’t make me say it again!” Naomi rubs her forehead, eyes tight shut.

“Really?”

“Fuck sake, Emily!”

Right in this very second, she loves, fucking loves Naomi Campbell with every sodding fibre of her being. She knows she’s grinning like an idiot but she doesn’t fucking care. She’s saved her life, made her life. Fortune does indeed favour the fucking bold!

“Thank you!” she stupidly throws her arms around Naomi, hugging her.

“Whoa, Ems, it’s just a drawing!” Naomi stiffens, resisting it. “And, it better be tasteful, I’m not showing everything,” she adds, firmly.

“Sorry, I just …” she steps back, immediately regretting it.

“Not used to people being nice to you?” Naomi scoffs, “not everyone is Katie, _yeah_?”

“Naomi!” she knows she shouldn’t laugh, but she can’t help it, especially when she throws her a very Katie look.

“Come on it’s true! I couldn’t stand looking at your face, thinking I was solely responsible for your academic failure!” she’s joking of course, but it’s far closer to the truth than she realises.

“Seriously, thank you,” she feels shy and silly again, like the entirety of their time at middle school.

“Thank me later, when you’re famous. I’ll probably fucking live to regret it but whatever,” Naomi starts to walk away, but then turns back again. “We’ll have to get fucking drunk first, there’s no way I’m doing it sober!” she calls.

“Course not, I know … I’ll bring something,” she manages, her brain lagging behind at the thought.

Naked was one thing, drunk was another; both of those things occurring at once were a very bad idea. She’d be purchasing the lowest proof alcohol in the history of all mankind.

As soon as Naomi’s out of sight, she rushes down the stairs to get some air, hoping it’ll bring about something nearing clarity. How was she meant to fucking concentrate now? There was no way they’d have the time to do it in the middle of the week, not with all the coursework and Katie pestering her to go out every five seconds because she thinks she’s some sort of fucking recluse. She can already imagine the look of complete horror on her face if she were to mention Naomi had replaced her as her go to drawing model. It’d serve her right for being a nosy bitch. If she didn’t like it, fuck her, it was too late to be worrying now. The deal was done, Naomi had agreed and it’d taken much less persuasion than she anticipated, so she didn’t have the luxury of being able to change her mind. Naomi isn’t the type to fuck about, and she isn’t going to give her reasons not to talk to her again. Naomi probably has enough of those to start with.

She owes her. Big time.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Your idle hands create temptation’s art.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For notes see [Chapter One](http://archiveofourown.org/works/734298/chapters/1365149).

***

 _"Your idle hands create temptation’s art."_

***

She still has no idea why she’s doing this, it’s not like Emily held a fucking gun to her head and forced her is it? She even said no once – if it’d been anyone else she’d have told them to get fucked before they got past the first fucking sentence. Even though she’s thought about it all fucking week she’s no clearer. It’s just been there, like a cloud, hanging over them, something _else_ that’s hanging over them, other than what happened at Pandora’s party. That was a mistake too, thinking that Emily didn’t have something to do with her unexpected invite. It keeps happening, things like this – they keep being drawn together, drawn to each other, no matter how hard she fights it. It seems the more she resists Emily, the more Emily tries, the more she’s on her mind, and she can’t seem to fathom why.

That’s a lie. She’s in the habit of lies. Most of them are lies she tells herself, like that this is just a drawing; that she’s just helping Emily; that it means nothing more; that kissing her, letting her guard drop, letting herself be kissed was just because of Emily’s stupid cow of a sister and Effy – fucking Effy, she still wanted to kill her for that – went and spiked the brownies. Watching Panda’s mum as high as a kite singing to Bon Jovi was funny – though not so funny if you’re Pandora, but that’s what you get for being mates with Stonem. Not so funny, however, was how relaxed those same brownies made her feel later; how easily Emily’s lips met hers, how soft they were; how she looked at her like she was special and precious, kissed her in the same way.

No one ever kissed her like Emily does.

Part of her knows why, it’s fucking obvious really, it always has been. She doesn’t want to think about that, not yet, not now; maybe it’ll never be the right time. Then there would be a label, a name for what she feels, and she doesn’t know what to call it, since it feels like she’ll never really know. Worst of all, the moment she does decide, she does say and she does do, then there will be no way to take any of it back. It’s terrifying.

When it comes to Emily, everything means something, no matter how small.

***

This is the earliest she’s been awake without having a protest to go to in years. It’s stupid, Emily isn’t coming ‘til the afternoon, and it’s not quite midday yet, but she couldn’t fall back to sleep. After hours of staring at the ceiling, trying to read, and then trying to knock a hole in her mountain of coursework – unsuccessfully – she’s up and dressed, looking round her bombsite of a bedroom wondering how in the hell she’s going to make it look remotely presentable for Emily. She isn’t the type of girl to have people in her room, do make-up and have sleepovers like Pandora. This is her place; to read, to smoke, play records and sleep, _alone_. It’s where she hides to escape from every other fucking person in this house, in the world. She’s fought so long and hard to get something that’s just hers, the idea of sharing it is … scary, even for a little while.

People already think she’s a freak, what with her mismatched clothes and anti-establishment ideas, and the whisperings that her mother ran some sort of hippie cult – it’s not a cult, it’s a community, and she’s just about sick to the back teeth of communal living. As soon as Emily walked in here and clapped eyes on Brian, Moses and Alan, she’d want to turn and run even before she’d seen anything of Imogen, Sally, or her fucking mum. If she did somehow survive the visit, she’s sure that eventually Emily will come to the same conclusion as everyone else at college. 

She looks round the room again, wondering where the hell to begin, wishing she’d listened all those times when her mum suggested she should tidy up. Good fucking job Emily wasn’t coming for a bit. It didn’t matter before, no one else saw it. Now it mattered, now everything seemed to matter. The layout’s wrong for a start, since the bed’s in the wrong place so all the light comes from behind, when it’d really work better from the left. At least, that’s what she imagines. There’s just crap everywhere, granted it’s her crap – candles, incense sticks, make-up, clothes, books, newspaper clippings, records and a week’s worth of glasses and plates – but it’s just so … different, all the campaign posters and quotes. She doubts very much that Emily has a picture of Nelson Mandela or Martin Luther King on her wall. Sharing with Katie, Fifty Cent’s more likely. She can’t help but laugh at that, it must be like living in the ninth circle of hell.

The only thing she’s sure of is that it’s happening today, since that’s the only detail they’ve discussed since she agreed to do it, and they’ve been avoiding each other at college ever since. It wasn’t purposeful, it just sort of happened that way. They’ve been out four nights of the last five and she barely remembers any of them, what with the spliff, whatever pills Effy had, and the ridiculous amount of shots that were downed. Things are different at night. She’s different at night. 

It’s the shots that made her dance with Emily on Monday, when they were at a house party, smoking in the garden because the music was shit and the company was even worse; flirt with Cook on Tuesday when they got pissed at the pub and cheated on the quiz; hang off Emily on Wednesday, pressed up close in this hellhole of a basement club Freddie’s sister Karen told them about; which lead to drinking herself into depression in the corner of somewhere else with Effy on Thursday – rambling on to her while she watched Emily dancing – and pretended not to be. She passed on last night because she wanted to be headache free and in possession of all her mental faculties when spending time alone with Emily again. 

Wednesday was a very bad, bad, idea. One not to be repeated.

It’s all Effy’s fault. She’s been in her fucking ear about the ‘thing’ going on between her and Emily, that there was ‘something’ between them. There’s no _them_. She’s told Effy God knows how many fucking times that she and Emily are separate people, but she keeps on about it, smiling at her with that know-it-all glance of hers because she’s so fucking sure of her observational fucking powers. Well, she needs to stop being so fucking nosy and sort her own shit out first before she’s going all Jeremy Kyle about other people’s lives.

The worst of it is, JJ’s been following Emily round like a lost fucking puppy all week, and for some reason that makes her beyond angry. Emily, being Emily, just lets him carry on, because she’s nice and doesn’t have it in her to tell people to get lost or that they’re pissing her off. She’d have no qualms, however, JJ or not. He couldn’t even let her walk to history alone the other day when Emily asked her about this modelling thing. Freak. He’s supposed to be the smart one, doesn’t he get that he’s about the least likely person Emily will shag, ever?

She sighs, flopping back on her unmade bed, hating that she’d turned round to watch Emily go down the stairs, carrying that ridiculously large portfolio of hers. Of course, JJ was there at the bottom, grinning like an idiot, waiting like the Prince fucking Charming to her Cinderella so they could go to history together; sit together like always. Of course, he was kind and chivalrous and took the damn thing and carried it for her. Of course, she smiled at him and away they went, practically fucking skipping along. 

“Fuck’s sake!” she gets up and starts to make the bed, fluffing the pillows and smoothing out the quilt like her mum’s always doing. “What the fuck am I doing?”

Why does she have the massive urge to rip his face off every time he’s near Emily? He’s nice. It’s fucking JJ for God’s sake. Disliking him is like hating Father Christmas or the sodding Tooth Fairy because, just like Emily, he hasn’t got a bad bone in his entire body; and just like Emily, he puts up with no end of shit, only instead of Katie, it’s from Freddie and Cook. Those two can be such selfish, thoughtless cunts it’s probably good he’s got Emily there as a friend, because she’s a proper, loyal, do anything go anywhere friend, not those shit friends who are only friends with you because they want something.

It’s sweet. Everything about Emily is sweet. Why she just stands there and takes all of her sister’s shit, she’ll never know, because sister or not, Katie is long overdue for a smack. The mood she’s in – the same weird, angry, tense mood she’s been in all week – she’d probably do it without a second thought. At least that would get rid of some of all this shit she’s been feeling. The only thing that’s stopping her is what Emily would think of her afterward, that and she’d probably hate her for doing it.

***

Before she met Emily, she thought people like her only existed on telly and in Enid Blyton stories, because, really, no one is that kind and thoughtful _all_ the time and if they are, they need fucking medical help. Though, it goes some way to explaining why Katie’s such a fucking bitch, because they’re like extremes of each other. Emily is everything Katie’s not and Katie’s everything Emily’s not. 

There has to be a point where Emily gets angry at the world like everyone else and totally loses it. It’d be weird for her not to; it’s not healthy, is it? It’s probably at Katie too. Karma’s a bitch. 

She knows all too well. 

They were almost proper friends once, the kind that wear friendship bracelets and have those split in half pendants, and do sleepovers, but their kiss – her very first, ever – changed all that. Nothing’s really been the same since. All hell broke loose, and she was unceremoniously tossed out of Katie’s inner circle. Instead of being left in social exile, they made her life a misery at every opportunity. It was Katie’s minions that did all the work, naturally. They were the ones that got into trouble, only because they were afraid of what she’d do to them in return. 

That’s why Emily was silent, why she’s still silent in so many ways.

After a while, it was easier to go along with it, to let Katie think it was all her fault rather than to grass Emily up. She couldn’t betray her, so she protected her instead. Deep down, that’s why she can’t blame her for all those years, for standing by and letting her suffer, because she was suffering in other ways. Emily wouldn’t have been strong enough to endure it; no one could, since it wouldn’t even stop when they got home. If anything, it would be worse, that kind of ridicule – that special Katie Fitch level of abuse that left no visible traces, but scarred you deeper than any wound – bouncing off the walls in the close confines of a family home. No escape.

“See, I can be fucking chivalrous too, Jones!” she announces to no one, hanging up clothes that have been ironed for weeks, but never put away, balling up everything else that’s lying round and throwing it into the stupid hamper her mother insists on putting the washing in. 

Her room _looks_ neat if nothing else.

***

“Mum!” she leans over the banister, yells downstairs. 

True to form, it’s not her mother that replies, “I think she’s outside, love,” Moses appears from nowhere, adjusting his classes and stroking his beard thoughtfully. “She’s doing the poly tunnels in the garden with Imogen, I believe.”

“Fuck sake!” she sighs, swinging round the wobbly banister and stomping down the stairs two at time – avoiding the fourth from the bottom out of habit, because it always creaks.

“What was it you wanted?”

She just glares. She’s not about to tell him that she wants the vacuum because she wants to tidy her room for someone, because it would lead to about twenty questions and twenty more after that. Knowing her luck, Alan’s probably stripped it for parts for Mum’s shitheap of a car to convert it to run Biodiesel or something. It’s been parked up so long it’s probably one big pile of rust. 

She likes Moses – or rather Nigel, but that’s his given name, and he doesn’t like labels of any kind, so he chose his own name – genuinely, been sort of like a dad to her in the absence of her own, knows everything about everything, and makes the neatest, skinniest roll-ups she’s ever seen; but today, his epitome of calm attitude, and gentle, caring ways are just pissing her right fucking off.

He looks at her for a moment, as if he wants to ask something else, but he just heads toward the garden in silence instead, cleaning his glasses with the edge of his t-shirt. 

She lets out a long frustrated sigh, pursing her lips closed, knowing she’s hurt his feelings for the umpteenth time this week. He immediately goes to her mum, and it looks serious – there’s lots of nodding and pointing. No doubt it’ll spawn some talk about respecting others and being aware of people’s feelings. Having been this way for the majority of her seventeen years of life, they really should know better and just stop wasting their breath – it’d save oxygen, after all. 

It’d have to wait. She’d apologise, albeit grudgingly, much later, and he’d accept, like always, hugging her in reply and she’d stiffen in it, like always, hating every second of it, because it feels meaningless to her since he does it all the time. She’s always hated people being close to her and showing affection. There are only two people in this world who break that rule and don’t get her patented death glare or make her want to run a mile as a result: her dad – what little she can remember – and Emily, though lately, Emily’s been making her want to run too; run far and run fast, until she can’t breathe anymore. She never hugs him back.

Peering around the kitchen door, in hope of finding Sally – her only real ally in this madhouse – she sees Brian’s there instead. He’s making _something_ , she has no idea what it is, but there are big pots and lots of vegetables involved. From the look of it, there will be fuck all left in the garden and they’ll be eating it for weeks. Marvellous. Thank God he’s wearing an apron today; else Emily might have a bloody heart attack. She’s not uptight about things, but she is shy, especially with new people. New people who are also naked may be quite difficult for her to handle.

“Alright, love?” he offers, cheerily. 

Why was everyone so fucking cheery and so fucking interested in her welfare all of a sudden? Any other time they act like she’s invisible, nothing special, just another mouth to feed, another soldier in the fight against … everything. Them taking notice is just making her feel worse, making everything she’s feeling – trying desperately not to feel – seem even more important than they were already. They all call her love, as if she’s their communal child. It’s always been that way since they moved to Bristol when she was four, and her mum opened the house up because after Dad fucked off she couldn’t afford to keep the house on her own. Though people have come and gone over the years, she knows that these are the people that mum really cares about, that care about her, maybe care about both of them.

Part of her wants people to ask, flat out about how late she’s been coming in, how drunk she’s been getting, because that’s what normal parents would do. It’s what Emily’s mum and dad would do. Sometimes she hates the fact her mum is so fucking liberal and treats her more like a friend than a daughter, which makes the moments she does act like a mother come as a complete fucking shock. Effy practically had to carry her back on Thursday, after being sick in the taxi home. Fucking vodka. She woke up so late on Friday she missed everything but tutorial which was just a fucking complete waste of time. Oh, and she had to sit next to Katie for an entire hour because there were no other seats and that was just fucking awkward. Every so often, she’d catch Emily looking at her in that sweet, open way she does, and blush – she actually _saw_ the blush creep over her she was staring that long.

Her head feels like it’s going to explode.

“Spec-fucking-tacular, Bri!” she answers, through gritted teeth.

“Thought as much,” he replies with a smirk. 

She comes up to the stove and nicks one of the carrots, chewing on it thoughtfully as she watches him chop and stir. “What’s on the menu?”

“Autumn vegetable bake, apparently,” he gestures to an ancient recipe book on the counter.

“Lovely.”

“Looks a lot like old shoes to me at this point, but your mum’s determined to use everything up before we get the new crop from the tunnels.”

“Mum’s determined to do a lot of things, but she’s not so good at seeing them through,” she looks away from Brian, unable to bear his kind face for any longer. He has that sorry look on his face that Emily often wore.

“Take these for later,” Brian reaches into the pocket of his apron, producing two neatly rolled spliffs. “Looks like you could do with ‘em more than me, kid.”

“Cheers Bri,” she smiles at his gesture, amused when his Liverpudlian lilt comes through.

“Don’t tell your bloody mother, it’s not like that shite you and your mates get. It’s proper.”

“Bloody hell. Where’s it from?”

“No idea, good stuff though,” he grins conspiratorially. “Courtesy of Kentish Reg. Don’t smoke it all at once,” there’s not much change in his voice, but the look he gives is enough of a warning.

At the mention of the infamous Reg, she genuinely brightens. He’s old enough to be her grandfather, a proper old hippie, except he has a caravan rather than a VW bus. He’s a bit like the Pied Piper, a proper leader, charming with it. They’d lived in his community for a while, but it was all a bit intense, a lot more extreme than her mum’s quaint ideas of self sufficiency. She eyes the spliff, remembering the last time she smoked some in her bedroom with Effy when they were working on something for English. Best bloody essay she’s ever written.

She turns round, finally ready for another standoff with her mum, but stalls, hanging onto the door frame and turning back to Brian.

“Bri?” 

“Yeah?”

“Can you not answer the door today?” there’s a degree of guilt in her asking, but she’s just being careful, not unkind.

“Expecting someone new, eh?”

“Something like that,” she replies, taking her last bite of carrot.

***

Emily’s late. That’s all she can think when she glances at her watch for the forth time, sat on the sofa opposite Alan, watching darts on his shitty ancient telly – that caused the mother of all rows with mum – or rather, pretending to watch darts, stuck with baby Zephan on her lap, his tiny hands gripped around both her index fingers. He lurches every so often, wanting to make break for it. Clearly she now has the mindset of a one-year-old child. This was her mother’s latest trick, her punishment for being rude to Moses, supposedly to help her learn to be considerate of the needs of others, or something equally fucking pious. Fuck all to do with the fact that Sally, Moses and Mum have pissed off to town to meet a bloke about next week’s Stamp Out Carbon Emissions protest and they can’t be arsed to take him with them, is it? No course not.

She really shouldn’t be _this_ panicked, since she’d told Emily any time after two. If she left it any later, it’d be too dark to see anything. She hadn’t expected staying at home to be so taxing, but it was, every single second. Just as Moses said, Mum and Imogen – Mum’s latest little protégée – were up to their eyes in the sheeting to make tunnels. There were so many trenches dug already it looked like something from the Somme. Alan’s stood looking seriously threatening with a saw – his piercings, shaved head and tattoos made him look about five steps from Charles Bronson, he gave her the creeps – in the middle of it all, was Sally sat in a deck chair ordering everyone about, with the baby in her arms. Of course, she got roped into helping, and then had to spend the better part of the afternoon making campaign banners with Sally in the kitchen. 

She’d barely had time to breathe, but was painfully aware of every single minute of every single passing fucking hour.

“Looks like she’s not coming, Zeph,” she cringes at how sad her voice sounds. Alan just gives her a look, sips on his beer, while little Zeph just looks at her very differently with his big eyes, trusting eyes, just like Emily’s.

It’s not like Emily just to bottle it like this, with not so much as a text. Given how much it must have taken to ask her in the first place, it’s sodding weird there’s just been nothing. Maybe she couldn’t get out, maybe Katie’s warned her off or her massively twatish behaviour for the majority of the week has finally turned the tide of Emily’s unwavering affection for her. She has no idea, and no amount of watching her phone will make it ring or make a text come. There were too many questions and not enough fucking answers. If she was braver, she’d phone and put herself out of her misery, but like everything else Emily-wise, she can’t find it within herself to do it. 

Knowing her luck, Zeph would randomly press the keys and it’d be Emily who comes out on the speaker, confused at first why a tiny little person is babbling at her, and then apologetic, when she realises she’s basically stood her up.

Not that this was a date or anything. The only date she’s ever seen is on the bloody calendar in her bedroom, and it’s staying that way, regardless of how many immature pricks at college or drunken blokes at clubs try it on.

***

When the doorbell rings at the start of Final Score she almost has a heart attack. Her legs have gone dead after sitting with Zeph for so long, and Alan’s gone into some sort of beer-induced coma. Mum, Sally, and Moses were still out, Imogen was an irritating, stuck-up little bitch who’d just grass her up to her mum at the earliest opportunity, bursting to share about their house guest, so she has to beat her to it, Brian was Brian, and given that Zeph can’t actually reach the door handle, it’s up to her. 

When it rings again, her panic really starts to set in. If she wasn’t careful, Emily would leave before she so much as moved an inch. She picks up Zeph, and he settles himself on her hip, clinging on tight, his little face is suddenly very much interested in what’s going on.

It’s just the excitement of their ridiculous doorbell melody, definitely not Emily. Don’t be stupid. He can’t possibly feel the speed her heart’s beating at. This is fucking ridiculous. 

“It’s rung twice, kid,” Brian states, meeting her in the hall. His apron forgone in favour of his trusty walkman.

“Why didn’t you open it?”

“You told me not to! Jesus Christ, make up your mind, I can’t open the door, now I can!” 

“Fucking hell, Bri, just take Zeph will you?!” she holds him aloft, but Brian steps back.

“Oh no, I heard your mother!” he holds up his hands and Zeph giggles, chewing on his own.

“Brian!”

“Just bloody answer it will you? I’m trying to do work, not all of us are academic sloths, Naomi.” Imogen purrs, looking down her nose from her great height on the middle stair.

She makes a face. Imogen can fuck right off. There’s no way she can be here when Emily is. She sticks her middle finger up at her.

“Such a child!” Imogen flounces off toward the garden, and Brian tacks after her.

“Fuck off, Imogen!” she yells and yanks open the door, raking a hand through her hair.

The cold night air hits her full in the face, nearly takes her breath with it. She shields Zeph when he shivers.

***

Emily. She almost forgets to breathe when she sees those big brown eyes looking up at her. She’s a bit flustered, carrying a massive yellow bag at her side. Her hair’s up – she’s never seen it that way before – with all these tendrils, everywhere. It’s nice … it’s pretty.

She needs to stop looking and fucking speak. 

“Hi.”

“Hello,” there’s no warm, sweet smile, only furrowed brows and a look of complete and utter confusion.

Oh _shit_ , Zephan! She thinks she’s one of those teenaged mothers. On the face of it, how could Emily not? She’s constantly cancelling nights out, she’s cagey about her personal life – because it’s personal, and called private for a reason, and she doesn’t fucking feel like sharing with the universe like Katie. But it’s more than that, and that’s why Emily’s looking like she just told her the sky was fucking green. Zephan looks like her fun size little clone. With his little tuft of blonde hair, blue eyes and a rainbow-striped hooded cardigan, he’s practically her male mini-me.

“Not mine!” she blurts out, immediately wanting to put him down. He just giggles, attempting to eat his own hand again. 

She lets out a long breath she didn’t know she was holding. Emily’s relief is just as palpable.

“I did wonder,” Emily smirks, drawing level with her and Zeph, “Aren’t you a handsome little man?!” Emily lowers her gaze to him, flashing a smile. Then, she gently touches his nose and he laughs.

She’s never seen anything so sweet in her life, and she doesn’t even like sweet things.

“Mate of mum’s, she lives with us. Loads of people do actually, and they’re all nosy bastards so don’t answer anything.”

She’s gone from a mute idiot, to a rambling idiot in the space of a few seconds. Fantastic. This wasn’t what she did. This wasn’t Naomi Campbell, but then, this didn’t feel like any other time she’s met Emily outside of college. 

“Good to know,” Emily turns, closing the door behind her. Ever since she came in, all Naomi’s been doing is walking backwards, as if she’s trying to chase her down or something. 

Alan pops his head round the door from the living room.

“Arrived at last then, eh?” he looks Emily up and down. She gives her best ‘don’t you fucking breathe a word’ look.

“I’m sorry I’m late. I got roped into shopping with Mum and James, and then Katie had drama with Danny, and I had to help JJ get a present for his mum’s birthday. He was in a right mess,” it all comes out in one big rush and she looks so upset by Alan’s offhand comment, that Naomi can’t take it.

From the vast amount of information Emily’s just relayed, the only thing that sticks is JJ. Sticks right in her throat; that and the fact that Katie’s miserable – which is her favourite state where _that_ member of the Fitch family is concerned.

“It’s alright, I was beginning to think you’d got hit by a bus or something, though,” they both laugh nervously, and she curses herself inwardly. “Al, take Zeph will you?” she holds him out, it takes an age for Alan to respond, so he’s wriggling about like Simba in the sodding Lion King.

“What’d your last bloody servant die of?!” he huffs, finally taking Zeph from her.

She hears Emily stifle a laugh.

“Overwork. Now please, kindly, fuck off!” she shoves Alan back into living room.

“Not going to introduce me to your little friend then?”

“Alan, Emily, Emily, Alan. There, happy?” she waves a hand between them, looking at Alan pointedly, silently begging him to stop torturing her. He just grins with the same hideous relish that her mum does.

Emily gives a little wave in reply, and Alan salutes her with his free hand, poking his head out into the hall again.

After Emily’s gone, he’s a fucking dead man. Hell’s Angel or no Hell’s Angel. She’ll bury him under the fucking poly tunnels. Serving a prison term would be like being at fucking Butlins after this.

“Come on Ems, let’s go.” 

Without thinking, she grabs Emily’s hand and practically drags her up the stairs.

***

On the sixth stair, she actually realises Emily’s hand is in hers, and lets go of it, quickly, not liking how comfortable it felt, how easily Emily’s fingers laced with hers. She lets Emily pass first, and leans against the door to close it, snapping on the light, breathing a sigh of relief when the lock – for once – actually does it’s job and catches without her having to batter the shit out of it, thus drawing attention to the fact she’s locking Emily in – but it’s really more to do with the fact she wants to keep everyone else out.

This is awkward, horribly awkward, and she’s suddenly reminded of why Emily’s here. It’s not a mates thing, it’s a ‘I’m going to draw you naked thing.’ She’s suddenly compelled to ask when they’re going to get on with it, because Emily’s clearly under the impression they’re going to bond or something, and after Wednesday, the only thing that should bond is superglue.

“I, erm, bought wine,” Emily says, quietly, breaking the silence, nervously sitting on the edge of the bed and shrugging off her jacket.

All she can do is nod.

She has to forget that Emily looks ridiculously pretty, in a purple little polo top – collar down, not up like some of the tosser boys at college, the chav league, like Cook – with those skinny jeans that everyone and their mom wears, and those cute little green flat shoes she always had on – that weren’t cute, just shoes. It reminds her of something from those glossy fashion mags Effy’s always reading under the table in politics: the cool kind with loads of artistic photos and weirdly posed models in heavy make-up, not the shitty leopard print endorsing trash that Katie reads; that Katie looks at the pictures in, she corrects, battling with herself not to grin, because then she’d look even more of an idiot. If that was possible at the moment.

The mere fact Emily’s here in her room at all was much more fucking difficult than she anticipated. Just seeing her sitting on the bed, looking at her scanning the room, and then coming back to her, expectant, it’s terrifying, she wants to tell her to get off and sit on a chair – on her horrible manky desk chair that she never switched for the nicer one in the dining room.

Oh fucking hell. Now she sounded as bad as JJ. At least it wasn’t out loud. 

She looks down at herself, wondering if she should have made more of an effort instead of just throwing on the first thing she put her hand on, not having planned for the clothed section of this _thing_ very well at all, resulting in her wearing tartan, stripes and mustard yellow all at once. When she puts her hand in the pocket of her skirt, she finds the spliff from Brian and breathes a long sigh of relief.

“I brought these,” she quirks an eyebrow, holding up the twin spliffs in her hand.

“Lucky I’ve got a lighter then,” Emily smiles devilishly, and waggles it at her. “We can share, yeah?” There’s a mischievous glint in her eyes that Naomi’s never seen before. 

It’s new, completely full, but all she can focus on is the fact that it’s red, drawn to the thing like some sort of beacon. Before she knows it, she’s crossed the room, sat next to Emily, and she’s leant in close to her while she lights the first spliff. Emily’s looking at her, looking through her. It’s so intense that she almost can’t bear it, but she can’t bear to look away either.

Emily came prepared for this, even if she didn’t.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“If I justified it, would you start/unfolding all the pleasures of the dark?”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For notes see [Chapter One](http://archiveofourown.org/works/734298/chapters/1365149).

***

_“If I justified it, would you start/unfolding all the pleasures of the dark?”_

***

She’s different tonight. She doesn’t seem like the same Naomi she asked to model for her on Monday. They’re lying side by side on this amazing – everything about this has been amazing – Moroccan rug on her bedroom floor, its Naomi’s mum’s brought back from her travels at seventeen. Naomi’s close to her, perilously close – so close in fact that if she were to shift just slightly to her right, their arms would be touching – sharing a spliff, lazily passing it between them as they talk, looking up at the glow in the dark stars on Naomi’s ceiling.

They’re not up there in a big mess like the ones in her and Katie’s room, stuck haphazardly when they had a competition to see who could jump the highest on the top bunk when they were nine, Naomi’s are perfect, every one is placed as it should be, to match the constellations. They’re not _quite_ glowing since it’s not entirely dark, and the only light’s coming from a lamp on Naomi’s desk, which making everything look kind of orange, like a weird indoor sunset. Fucking hell, she wasn’t wrong, this spliff is _proper_ fucking good. A million times better than that weak shit Freddie’s always giving them. Spliff or no spliff, it’s still beautiful, listening to Naomi say the name of each group – even though she knows what they are, she doesn’t interrupt her – and point to each one.

She has no idea of the time and she hasn’t looked at her phone either, too wrapped up in conversation to care. They even had dinner in here, some hastily made sandwiches – salad and something, she can’t remember what, but she does remember she smiled when Naomi purposefully said she made healthier ones than normal, just for her – which they then shared from the same plate.

They’ve been talking for ages about everything and nothing. Well, everything _except_ the last week and the fact that they got wasted at some club on Wednesday and the night ended with them dancing with each other – more like grinding really, with her back to Naomi, their hands all over each other – right in the middle of this massive crowd of people, surging with the music. She remembers Cook coming up, when she’d just managed to drag Naomi away from the bar, putting his arms round them both and yelling in her ear that he was going to get “their song,” put on. They all went mental the first time it was played at a house party, it’s the only thing that every one of them will dance to, no matter where they are; so it became their unofficial group song. It doesn’t even have any words. When the first few notes came out into the air, it changed everything. It was loud – the kind of bass that rings in your chest, pushes you on, makes you feel strong – and the strobes flashing over them just added to it, heightened everything. The last thing she remembers before stumbling out with Katie and everyone else, crashing at Freddie’s in his shitty shed, is Naomi’s hands on her tits – she put them there, guided her to it, and for once, Naomi didn’t stop, she didn’t flinch – arching back into her, angling her neck, wanting to kiss her, millimetres from doing so.

She blamed Cook until yesterday. It was better than blaming herself.

It’s just _there_ , lurking, undiscussed, in between the bitching about parents and teachers, and taking the piss out of people at college – mostly Cook and Katie, as well as a few extra targets of Naomi’s wrath from Hair and Beauty clones, who she’s convinced will rise up and kill them all with massive cans of hairspray. It began hours ago with bands they like to listen to (everything from The Kooks to Sigur Rós); books they like (Mrs Dalloway, To Kill a Mockingbird, On the Road); finally coming round to the places they want to travel to when they’re finished with college (India, Thailand, New Zealand). Naomi’s got the whole thing planned out on a map on her wall, with stick pins and _everything_. They stood and admired it for a long while before collapsing into a fit of giggles over the stick pins themselves.

Each answer’s been like a revelation on its own, and whether they’ve agreed or disagreed, the reaction to it has been the same; grinning at each other idiotically and springing up in shock, looking at each other with wide eyes. All this has just made her realise how little she really knows about Naomi, but she’s been equally surprised to learn how much they have in common, which in turn just makes her feel sad that they’ve never had the opportunity just to be in each other’s company like this before. It’s comfortable, and she can’t say that she’s ever been particularly comfortable in Naomi’s presence before, because her feelings seem to get in the way and it’s all tense and awkward, because she always feels like ten seconds from confessing undying love at any given moment, while Naomi’s ten seconds from running away, never to be seen again.

It’s fucking ridiculous really; she should just stop thinking and relish it, because tomorrow could be different again. Lightning doesn’t strike twice and all that shit. She adores her, just being around her, they don’t even have _do_ anything, she’s content – blissfully, when she lets herself – just watching, listening, and talking because Naomi’s completely unlike anyone else she knows. Lately, she’s been purposefully finding ways to be with her or just near her, leaving home early and going back late. Half the time, something comes up with Katie – boy drama, outfit drama, parental drama, just plain drama; her sister’s fucking magnet for such things – so she’s torn away before she feels it’s right, before she’s had her allotted time, though, there’d never be time enough really.

So, she’s either lovesick or sick in the head.

***

Still, there’s only so much you could conjure up though, even with an imagination as vivid as she’s got. How it’s been between them, it can’t be just her; it can’t be the spliff – even though that’s making them both incredibly relaxed, which is probably helping – and they haven’t even opened the wine, so it’s not that either. All the awkwardness from when she first arrived seems to have disappeared, whether it’s just floated away or forgotten about, she doesn’t care. It feels like Naomi trusts her, which is … well, given what she’s about to do; no, what they’re about to do, it’s a good thing, but maybe things are changing between them, really changing, and not just from her wishing they would.

“This is nice,” Naomi says, after a long gap of silence. She turns to her, propping herself up on one elbow and holds the spliff out to her.

“Yeah,” she turns that little bit more, so they’re facing each other and smiles. Naomi looks at her for a moment, two, and reaches down, gently placing the spliff between her barely parted lips, holding it while she takes a longer than necessary drag, watching her do it.

_Oh…_

It’s mesmerising. Her eyes look so, so, blue, and her hair keeps falling in her face so she has to keep flipping it back. There’s always one lock, that never quite goes; an errant lock – she smiles at the thought – and she’s aching to touch it, to tuck it back behind her ear, but she knows as soon as she does it, it’ll be like a massive domino effect and they’ll be all over each other again like at Panda’s party, only more.

Suddenly, she can’t breathe, she feels like her lungs are going to burst if she looks at her one second longer. Then, Naomi’s taken it away, and it’s in her mouth. She takes a long drag, like she needs it.

“Not quite what I imagined when you said you wanted to draw me,” Naomi drawls, in this husky little whisper that sets off _something_ low in her stomach.

She swallows, hard. She’s always thought Naomi was ridiculously sexy; sexy when she shouldn’t be, when doing the most mundane things, but this was a whole other level of … God knows what it was. Tense, but a good tense.

“No,” she sits up, quickly, feeling the blood rush to her head, shuffling to sit cross-legged, which never fails to make her feel six. “But then, I wouldn’t have marched in here and made you strip off straight away,” she glances up at her, unsure if it was too much.

Liar.

Seeing Naomi naked has been the only thing on her mind all week. She completely fucked up the test in History because of it. When she had to switch papers with JJ, she wanted the floor to swallow her whole. He kept glancing over at her, face etched with concern, looking at her like she was the biggest fucking moron to walk the face of the earth, silently telling her ‘you should know these things, Emily.’ Of course she fucking knew them, but she couldn’t concentrate, couldn’t care enough, so she failed out of laziness rather than ineptitude. Not her finest hour. She thinks about telling Naomi that, because in this mood, she’d probably find it funny, and her whole face lights up when she laughs, properly laughs, big and loud.

She wants to see it, be the cause of that laughter.

“How professional of you,” Naomi gives her trademark smirk.

“Fuck off!” she laughs a little, shakes her head. If only she knew. If only.

When she allows herself to look at Naomi again – so much of what she does with Naomi is constrained to what she _allows herself_ even now. It’s a habit, she’s trained, practiced. It’s another art she’s good at – she’s lying down, with her eyes closed, her long lashes fluttering slightly as she exhales exhaling smoke in a perfect stream. She watches it rise up to the ceiling, touching the stars, kissing them almost.

If only she could draw that. Draw how beautiful that looks. How beautiful Naomi looks.

“So,” Naomi sits up, raking a hand through her hair, ruffling through the shorter layers so it sticks out all over the place, while stubbing out the spliff with purpose into a mug-turned-astray next to her. “Where’s this wine you’re gonna ply me with, woman?!”

“Jesus, don’t say it like that!” her head practically whips off her shoulders when Naomi turns to her, tensing up immediately at the suggestion. It makes it sound like this is one big trick, like she’s doing it on purpose just to get her own way.

“Ems, I’m joking!” Naomi shoves her playfully.

“Oi!” she shoves her back, just managing to smile.

Calm down for fuck’s sake. She’s not out to get you.

“Where is it then?” Naomi’s kneeling now, looking through her bag she brought with her. She sets it down on the carpet between them, opening it fully. They both smile when they hear the neat little clink of the bottle. “Ooh aren’t you clever, you brought cups!” Naomi exclaims, with a little chuckle.

Knowing that Naomi’s clearly taking the piss, she doesn’t rise to it this time.

“I came prepared.”

“So I see.” Naomi nods, unscrewing the cap off the bottle. “You can come again, none of that corkscrew shit!”

“Thank Katie,” she says with a smile, holding the cups while Naomi pours, shooting her a look when her obligatory eye-roll happens. “She got it from the Offy, they’ll never serve me.”

“Aww, little Ems!”

“Fuck off!” she makes a face, shoving Naomi again, a little harder. “The bloke’s behind the counter are too busy looking at her tits to give a toss about her ID!”

Thank God for Katie’s stash.

“Classy, your sister.”

“I know.”

Naomi takes a long swig of the wine, more like you’d do for orange juice, “Ugh, fuck, this tastes like shit!” she screws her face up, spitting it back into the cup. She shuffles back, resting against her bed, beckoning her to come closer.

“It’s to get pissed on honey, not critique!” she settles next to her, bringing the bottle anyway. She raises her cup in toast and downs the whole thing in one, ignoring how much it burns. She tries not to choke on it when she reads the proof on the label.

Fucking Katie.

Naomi’s eyes widen, and she’s not sure if that’s a good or bad thing. “Jesus Ems, here’s me thinking you were a good girl!” she refills her cup anyway, and moves that little bit closer to her. “Here’s to …”

“Art,” she offers, with a shy smile.

“No, to the artist!” Naomi corrects, looking at her in the same innocent yet incredibly sexy, curious way she has been all night; as if she’s never understood her before. “You aren’t gonna do a Picasso thing are you, so I’ll have six eyes, a green head and four tits or something?”

She bursts out laughing, “What? No! It’s not that kind of portrait!”

“Good, just checking. Naomi tilts her head a little. “Give me good ones then, just the two, obviously.”

“It wouldn’t be very hard to make you look good, Naomi.”

They look at each other, right in the eyes, for what seems like an age. The urge she has to kiss her is overwhelming. It’d be easy, she’d barely have to move, but she’s too cautious for that, terrified of ruining things. Yet, her resolve is weakening. It’s too much, too fast. She glances down, feeling her cheeks burning; it was like the corridor all over again. Then, just like that, it’s gone again, and Naomi’s glass is to her lips, drinking away. They both shudder when they swallow, and burst out laughing, falling against each other. She stiffens at first, nervous. Letting out a shallow breath, she wonders if she should move back; wanting, no _needing_ to put space between them.

She doesn’t trust herself otherwise.

Any other time, she’d have bolted, ran straight home, craving the air and the distance it’d give her, but she can’t seem to make herself move, doesn’t want to. She knows it’s too much, too soon, but she just wants more, and Naomi keeps giving.

When Naomi’s hand slides nervously on top of hers; somehow pulling her closer still, she shudders for an entirely different reason.

***

Naomi went to the bathroom some minutes ago, too self-conscious to undress in front of her. Suddenly, something that was once an abstract idea, a whim, a dream, is very real. They’d sobered up long ago. She can feel herself changing, the comfort is going and the high’s diminishing. Now she’s the nervous again. She’s alone, just looking around at everything. It’s all so unmistakably Naomi: The coloured fairy lights, like little lanterns, strung up all over the place; the posters – speeches, quotes, environmental banners and flyers instead of actors or pop stars; photographs of far off places; books, endless rows and rows of them crammed everywhere that she can’t help but run her fingers over the spines and read the sleeves.

She’s curious now; fascinated by the little trinkets she finds herself picking up and turning over – pebbles, jade, quartz, lapis lazuli or “hippie shit” as Naomi called it, when she first commented on it hours ago – finally stopping to admire the Buddhist prayer beads hanging with all of Naomi’s other jewellery near a makeshift dressing table. She holds them up and watches how they catch the light. It’s not purposeful, of course, she’s just compelled to touch, as if it’ll tell her something Naomi won’t; that Naomi _can’t_. When she catches sight of herself in the nearby mirror, she snaps out of it, and moves away, not wanting Naomi to come back in and think she’s snooping.

Her eyes settle on the wine bottle sitting on Naomi’s desk, with a little over half left. She contemplates downing the whole fucking thing, just to give her some more courage, but it’s not exactly the best bloody idea when you in need of a steady hand, and since this is likely to only happen once, she doesn’t want to fuck it up. Instead, she leaves it alone, and focuses on what she came to do.

***

She takes her time setting everything out, mostly to keep herself busy and distract herself; making sure the curtains behind Naomi’s bed are properly drawn, pushing back the bedclothes, just to help her out a little when the time comes for her to pose. The idea or at least what she was aiming for, was something natural, not too put together – that kind of pristine composed bollocks drove Greg up the wall, and he’d tear up her drawing in a fit of rage without giving a toss what it means to her. Whatever Naomi did, she’d go with it. Her own things are on the floor, next to Naomi’s desk chair: loads of pencils – graphite and charcoal, in case the real charcoal sticks she’s wanted to use break on her – and her sketchbook, and some loose paper, all laid out neatly, like a fucking surgeon.

“You can do this,” she breathes, inhaling deeply and letting it out again, before moving the chair for the fourth time, so it’s sort of side on to Naomi’s bed.

Given the space they’ve got, it’s just about the best angle for what she’s after. This way, they can still talk, and she can look at her face instead of everywhere else when it gets too much. It will get too much. Looking down at her clothed self, she realises how unfair it is, and wants to even things up somehow. She takes off her shoes and pulls out her hairclip, tossing them to the floor, shaking her hair out and combing her fingers through, working it loose. Resting back in the chair, she stretches up in the hope it’ll relax her muscles, and some of the tension in them will go.

There’s exactly fourteen steps between the chair and Naomi’s bed. She’s counted.

When the door opens unexpectedly, and there’s a rush of noise and voices, she sits up again, quickly, trying to look collected, relaxed and professional. She’s nothing of the sort, her palms are sweaty, her mouth’s dry, and her fringe keeps falling in her eyes and pissing her the fuck off. The only way she’d calm down at all is if she sat on her hands, which isn’t the greatest way to draw someone.

“Did you think I’d done a runner?” Naomi asks, with a shy smile, putting her hand to the door. It closes with an inordinately loud click; the sound of a lock catching.

She never noticed that the first time.

Naomi’s wearing a dressing gown, royal blue and silky looking, with black trim. It looks elegant and decadent. Even though it has a belt, she’s holding it together. Her cheeks are flushed, just slightly, and she doesn’t have any make-up on anymore – not that there was a lot to start with. Unconsciously, she licks her lips.

This was a very bad idea. She’ll be the death of her.

“No.” she shifts in the chair, trying her best to keep calm and still. Failing fucking spectacularly at both tasks. She’s sure her heart’s never gone this fast or beat so loud, and Naomi’s not even naked yet.

“Liar,” Naomi bites down on her bottom lip, clearly flustered. “Is this, alright, the light, me, everything. There’s a dimmer on it, or we could light some candles … but then, wouldn’t it be really dark and ...” she falls silent, just looking at her.

She sits forward, “The candles would be nice, maybe with the dimmer too,” she offers, with a smile she hopes is reassuring.

“Sorry I took so long, I had to go and borrow this off Sally. I don’t have pyjamas, stuff like that, and I didn’t feel like pulling a Brian and walking back in stalkers!” she laughs, nervously, playing with the dimmer switch, watching her until she gives a nod of approval – it’s almost at the lowest setting, just enough to see by.

Almost immediately, Naomi’s off again, darting about, lighting candles, striking match after match.

“Fuck sake!”

“Let me,” she crosses the room, taking the matches from her. Naomi’s hands are shaking. She wants to take them her own, kiss all this horrible nervousness away. It’s all she’s wanted to do all night. But she’s never given in to what she wants. Never hounded, never chased, and this time’s no different; she just takes another match from the box instead.

It lights on the first strike.

“Fucking typical!” Naomi exclaims dramatically.

When Naomi’s back is turned, she watches her as she crosses the room. She can’t bear to look away. She’s so beautiful, and she doesn’t even know it.

“There,” she smiles triumphantly, turning back to Naomi. “Looks nice, doesn’t it?”

Naomi sits quietly on end of the bed, with her hugging her sides, barely nodding in reply.

***

It feels strange to be the strong one, to be the one in control. The one with the power.

On impulse, she pours a little of the remaining wine into the cups, handing one to her, and drinking from the other, handing it to her, in the hope that it’ll relax them both just enough, so it’s marginally less terrifying. She slumps into the chair, and they just look at each other again. It’s hard not to, when she’s around, but now it feels like Naomi’s searching her too. She can feel her looking. She always could.

“Shall I burn some incense? I like it, but some people don’t because it gives them a headache, which might not be a good idea since you have to concentrate and stuff?”

Before she can answer, Naomi’s up and off again, having downed the contents of the cup she just gave her.

“Oh, music, we could have some music, it’s not all vinyl, there’s proper CDs and stuff. What shall we have? Classical? Sally likes classical music. It’s what the Masters would have, isn’t it?”

She leans back, gazing up at her, flicking furiously through a stack of albums. “I think you might be stretching things a bit there, honey,” she takes a sip of her wine.

Some soft piano music starts up, Beethoven or Chopin, perhaps, she doesn’t really know. All her parents listen to are bands they liked when they were growing up, and Katie hates anything that isn’t overplayed and popular, so if she even tried something like this, she’d get looked at like she was fucking mental. She closes her eyes, just listening for a moment, hearing Naomi light another match, and the heady, sweet, familiar, smell of incense fills the room.

“I like incense, it smells nice. It reminds me of you.”

Fuck. Fuck. _Fuck_.

Her eyes snap open, and she looks over at Naomi, panicked that she heard; her heart pounds hard in her chest.

“I’m rambling like fucking JJ, aren’t I? Fuck sake, where’s the wine?” Naomi lets out a frustrated sigh.

Thankfully, it looks like she hasn’t heard a word. She’s never been more grateful for someone not listening to her in her life.

“Naomi,” its almost a whisper, she wants to reach for her, console her, end this whole thing and just give in to what’s been between them all night, because it’s less about the drawing and more about them.

Maybe it always has been.

“What?” it’s sharp, the sharp tongue she’s used to.

“It’s right there, on the desk, see?” She motions to it, careful not to embarrass her, though it’s unlikely she could _more_ embarrassed at this point.

“Oh,” Naomi pauses to pour some, collecting herself. “I’m sorry, I’m just… I thought this was going to be easier, we should have done it before,” she sits down heavily on the bed, holding the cup with both hands, staring down at it.

Before, it was sweet, so completely adorable to see her vulnerable and unguarded because she’s usually so careful and composed, but now, it’s just making her feel guilty, because she’s doing this to her. She leans over, putting her cup on the desk, and sits forward, clasping her hands together, trying to catch Naomi’s eye.

“We can do this another time, you know?”

It’s a lie, but she doesn’t care. She doesn’t care about Greg, the portfolio. Any of it. She can’t stand it. This need, this want. It hurts. It’s always hurt her in a way, but it’s been a good kind of pain, until now. God, she wants her. She just wants her now; in her bed, on the floor, it doesn’t matter.

Stop.

They’ve come too far though, and they both know it. Naomi’s face says as much.

“What? No! I’m just being stupid. No we’re doing this. I want to. I want –”

She swallows hard, “Want what?”

“I want you… I want to do this for you. I want to see how you see me,” it’s so quiet, she can only just hear it.

Oh, Naomi…

She’s looking at her innocently and so openly that she almost feels like crying. The height of professionalism, that. She shakes it off, reaching down for her sketchbook, settling it on her lap against her leg, like a makeshift easel with a few sheets of paper, distracting herself with sharpening the tip of the charcoal.

“Promise me you won’t laugh?”

“Why would –” she glances up, puzzled.

Naomi interrupts with a stern, “Promise me.”

“I promise,” she nods, just to reinforce it.

Naomi takes a deep breath, slowly standing up, with her hands hovering over the two ends of the dressing gown belt.

“Close your eyes,” she pauses again, adding a soft, “please.”

She sits back in the chair, doing as Naomi asks. She listens, hearing the sound of the material drop to the floor, desperately trying to keep herself still and calm, secretly grateful Naomi’s slowed all of this down. It’s all been much harder than she anticipated it would be.

***

“You can open them now,” Naomi announces. She can hear the waver in her voice.

It makes her stomach flip over.

She’s scared now, of course, because she won’t know what to do with herself when she does, how she’ll cope with it. She’s not going to suddenly have scales and be ugly. Naomi will be beautiful; she’ll make her heart stop. It’s only now that she realises she hasn’t entirely thought this whole thing through, and none of the imagining matters because …

It’s not even close, there aren’t words for it.

Naomi’s just standing there, arms at her sides watching her, studying her, like she has all night, waiting for her to say something; her face flushed with embarrassment. Whatever kind encouragement she was going offer flies completely out her head the second she sees her. She wants to say everything, say a thousand things, but not a single word can work its way from her brain to her mouth.

Her pencils drop from her hand, and her sketchbook slides off her lap, paper spilling out all over the floor. She’s not fast enough to catch either, since she can’t take her eyes off the girl in front of her, lost in the shapes she makes: her beautiful long legs; her curves; the way her skin, her hair, her eyes and her eyes look in the constantly changing light; her completely fucking gorgeous mouth.

It’s perfect. She’s perfect.

The candles flicker when a slight breeze comes through and Naomi shivers slightly.

Every single fucking time she’s imagined a moment like this, it’s taken less than ten seconds to leap up and kiss her, hard, slow, and deep like she’s always wanted to; but she couldn’t move at all. She’s rooted to the spot, in complete awe of her.

“Wow,” is all she can manage.

For a moment, Naomi looks puzzled, like she didn’t expect her to say anything like that at all.

“Not so bad then?” Naomi offers, shyly, sitting back down on the bed.

“Definitely not,” she smiles at her, shaking her head. She really had no idea. “Just try to relax, OK?” she adds, gently, trying not to sound too forceful. She couldn’t demand things of her yet. She daren’t.

“I’m _naked_ ,” Naomi just looks at her, as if it’s a foreign concept.

“You sleep naked, at Panda’s party, you said –”

“No one sleeps in here with me, Ems,” Naomi turns away, tucking her hair behind her ear.

She reaches down for her sketchbook, flailing at air for a moment, so she finally has to look away herself. It makes Naomi laugh, breaking the tension between them. Suddenly she can breathe again, but it doesn’t stop the ache of wanting her; of wanting to touch her.

“I thought you were the professional?!” Naomi relaxes just enough to smile at her; this completely beautiful slow-burn smile that she wants to store away and never forget.

“The last person I drew wasn’t naked, thank you very much. Statues don’t count.”

“So, what do I have to do exactly?” Naomi accentuates her every word, ever so slightly mischievous.

Her nerves are going. The Naomi she knows is coming back. Either that or she’s just getting better at hiding things.

“Just, erm … lie back,” she stops a moment, aware of just how that sounds. “Just do what feels comfortable,” she gestures back to herself. “Eyes to me though, OK?”

“OK.” Naomi shuffles backward, watching her intently for any sort of sign, before lying down on her side facing her.

She grips onto the edge of the sketchbook, tilting it higher, so she can see less. It’s too tempting. Within a few seconds though, she lets it drop again, watching Naomi as she shifts round awkwardly onto her back. It all looks a bit too stilted. She’s still for a second, and then moves again, first her right arm, and then her left, throwing them back down against her sides in frustration. She’s too caught up in what it looks like still; what can be seen.

She finds her attention’s caught by the smallest thing: the way Naomi’s muscles move when she does, tensing and relaxing; the rise and fall of her chest when she breathes, no matter how she’s trying to slow it; the shadows on the bed.

It’ll be impossible to convey all this, to do her justice. It’s just going to be some weak, piss poor thing, and Greg’s going to laugh her out the fucking room.

***

“Stop thinking.”

“Easier fucking said, you’re not naked,” Naomi lets out a shallow breath, turning her head toward her, pursing her lips closed.

“Try,” she glances down at the blank page, attempting to start mapping things out a little bit, roughly, in her head. It’s just not quite there yet.

“Sorry.”

“It’s OK.”

“I don’t know what you want it to look like,” Naomi’s still looking at her, moves a little again. Her right arm falls across her stomach, resting lightly.

She tilts her head, taking in her changed position, “I’m just seeing what you do. Greg says things should be organic.” The last bit trips off her tongue, parrot fashion. It’s his mantra. He wants perfection. Perfection she sees but can never match, knowing already that the strokes on the page won’t reach that height.

“What else does he say?”

“Most of it’s crap really,” she shrugs.

Naomi laughs lightly, “He looks a tosser, all those black polo necks, like Warhol.”

It seems the more they talk, the more relaxed she becomes, so she tries to keep going, focussing on the lights above Naomi’s head.

“He is, but he’s really good. He just knows what he wants, I suppose.”

Naomi locks eyes with her again, and she glances away quickly, picking up her cup off the floor and taking a careful sip. She swears there was more in it. Well, obviously, once, there _was_ more, but the little sips she’s taking are adding up.

Throwing the sheet half over herself, in a last ditch attempt at modesty, Naomi mutters and swears under her breath in frustration. It still doesn’t look right. Given how nervous Naomi is it’d be easier to get up and physically move her to the position she’s thinking of, but she’d be unable to resist doing something else all together that that fuck all to do with drawing, and a lot to do with shagging her pretty little brains out.

How cliché.

“It’d probably look better without wouldn’t it?” Naomi asks, with a cautious look. she nods and motions for her to push it back. Naomi sits up, momentarily, throwing it back, and the quilt falls off the end of the bed. “Shit,” she breathes, attempting to reach for it.

“No, leave it there ...”

The sheet itself pools at her ankles and she kicks at it, resting with one leg down, and one leg up. Now she’s moved about so much her legs are tangled in it, so she lifts one, leaving the other underneath. It’s like this twisted little stripe, starting at her right hip, and ending at her left ankle. The contrast piques her interest immediately.

Wait.

She leans forward, watching as Naomi’s hair fans out slightly against the pillow, when she lies down. Within seconds, it’s smoothed back out, leaving her right arm up near her head. Her hand stays open, fingers flexed in this completely beautiful way, while the other arm rests just below her breasts. It’s what she’s been after. There she is, reclining, like some decorous Pre-Raphaelite lady, in want of a lover. It’s the perfect mix of modesty and eroticism. She wanted people to desire her whenever they looked at this drawing; to crave her, just like she did. They’d ache for her. She’d be the best they never got.

All the best portraits are like that. They consume you. She consumes her.

As if sensing she’s on to something, Naomi turns back toward her, with this perfectly relaxed face, her lips are slightly parted, as if she’s just spoken or will do.

She’s had this Goya painting stuck in her head for ages, but it’s being bettered by what’s in front of her. What she’s been thinking of all the time. It’s there, living, breathing, right in front of her eyes.

“Don’t move.”

“What?” Naomi lifts her head.

“I said, _don’t_ move,” she looks at her pointedly.

“Oh,” Naomi smiles, in that sweet shy way she’s been doing, like it’s just for her. “This is right then?”

“Yes. It’s perfect. Are you OK?”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“Just, tilt your head down a little bit.”

It works; the light catches her features differently, illuminating them perfectly.

Naomi complies without questioning, getting very much into the role now. The furrowed brows and the ‘what the fuck’ looks have gone, and she’s just content to do whatever she asks. She wonders how far she could push, if she could find the exact point where Naomi couldn’t take any more. She thought that was long ago.

Oh God …

She moves in the chair, feeling it creak as she pushes herself up in it, folding a leg underneath herself. This time, she manages to keep hold of everything, much to her relief.

“We good to go, Picasso?” Naomi asks, with a little smirk.

“Yes. It’s going to look beautiful,” she replies, holding her gaze.

She’s never meant anything more.

***

It’s quiet now, aside from the music and the sound of the charcoal against the paper. To her credit, Naomi’s remained entirely still, with not so much as a whisper coming from her since they settled into this properly. All that they have between them is eye contact, as she glances back and forth between her and the paper. Slowly but surely it’s coming together. The only problem is, the further along they get, the more it looks like her. When she goes back over parts to add details, with her fingertips sweeping across the page across the page to add shadows, it’s like she’s touching her. She half expects Naomi to move, to whimper, to moan, arching into this mysterious, invisible touch, but there’s nothing, only the intensity of her gaze whenever their eyes meet.

Each time, it gets harder to look away, harder to concentrate.

Shapes, that’s how she has to think of it. They’re just lines, lines that make shapes, shapes that don’t belong to Naomi at all, and bear absolutely no correlation to where she wants to touch. She draws the curve of Naomi’s breasts in one smooth motion, and when it comes to adding the shadows and depth there, she stalls, feeling her herself burning with embarrassment. When she looks down at her page, her hands are shaking, ever so slightly.

Pull yourself together, Fitch.

“You’re blushing,” Naomi says, soft and raspy.

She hasn’t heard her voice in so long, it sounds strange.

“So are you,” she smiles cautiously, not daring to linger on Naomi’s face any longer than necessary.

Focus. For fuck’s sake.

“What’s the matter?”

“Nothing,” she swallows hard, drinking down the last dregs of her wine. As soon as she it’s gone, she realises the bottle’s empty. The rest is in Naomi’s cup, next to her on the chair that doubles as a bedside table; untouched since they took a break over half an hour ago, just to let her move.

“Ems, look at me.”

She ignores her, keeping her eyes trained on her page instead, adding shading to the top of Naomi’s arm; putting tiny shadows under her curled fingers.

“Emily… _please_.”

It’s the extra weight Naomi gives to the ‘please’ that does it, that finally tips her over the edge she’s been teetering near. She’s holding the charcoal so tight, and pressing so hard, that it snaps.

Fucking hell.

When she finally makes eye contact with her, she’s moved completely, sitting up, her face etched with concern.

Oh God, she thinks she’s done something wrong.

“It’s not you … it’s…” she sighs, closing her eyes.

She can’t take any more. She’s been so good, and so patient. She’s tired of it, tired of it all. She throws the charcoal then, and the sketchbook, dimly aware of it spiralling, landing somewhere in the corner.

***

Before she knows it, those fourteen steps are gone, and she’s scrambled onto Naomi’s bed, straddling her. She grabs Naomi’s face, fingers threading through her hair, pushing it back. This time, the kiss isn’t anything like middle school or Pandora’s party, it’s the complete opposite. Their lips crush together, hard, and there’s a great rush of air, swallowing Naomi’s confused “Emily?” entirely as the kiss deepens, quickly, without so much as a breath for air before her tongue’s in Naomi’s mouth, tongue’s in Naomi’s mouth, greedy for her. There’s nothing remotely sweet about it, it’s just about need, desperate need.

It’s only when Naomi breaks the kiss suddenly, and pushes against her shoulders, resisting her, that she realises what she’s actually done. Filled with panic, she tries to move away, but Naomi won’t let her, she’s clinging on tight, just gazing at her, with questioning eyes, mouth slightly agape.

“I didn’t mean…”

Lies. Lies. Lies.

Naomi lets her go, mutters a soft, “Shush,” before one hand drifts up to touch her mouth and traces the shape of her lips. All she can do is watch as Naomi leans forward, placing a single cautious kiss on her lips. She leans back for a moment, reeling from it, before she closes the gap and kisses Naomi back. Their mouths brush together, so lightly that it’s barely anything like what happened between them before. They connect and disconnect, slowly moving each time, changing angle. She shifts her weight, gently pushing Naomi back into her pillows, their legs tangle together, and Naomi’s arms go around her, running up and down her back, making her breath hitch. Each kiss lingers a little longer than the last.

Tiny little tests. Eager experiments. She doesn’t have a plan for this.

***

When they pull apart, breathless, she reaches, stroking Naomi’s cheek with the back of her hand, attempting to brush away all the little charcoal marks she’s left already – Naomi smiles when she holds up her free hand – before placing barely there kisses along her jaw line, drifting down her neck, pressing just a little harder. Naomi lets out a little whimper, tilting her head back. She repeats her path in reverse, laving extra attention on her as she goes, with gentle flicks of her tongue against her skin – it’s soft, so beautifully soft, just like she imagined. Her name falls from Naomi’s mouth in the exhale of a shaky breath.

She’s never heard anything so fucking hot in all her life.

Things have barely started, and she can feel it already, feel how wet Naomi’s making her – finally acknowledging it’s there after suppressing that need all day. Now she’s aching to do more, but wants to take things slowly for Naomi’s sake as much as her own.

Savour it.

She draws level with her again and leans down for another kiss, pulling in Naomi’s bottom lip and gently sucking on it, encouraging her. Naomi arches up into her, responding with hard, greedy, sloppy little kisses. Some miss their mark entirely, landing on the corner of her mouth and her chin. Even this leaves her gasping for air. They break for a moment, not daring to look away from each other, not daring to speak, that doing so will ruin the strange spell that’s been cast over them. It’s lustful the way she’s looking at Naomi, she knows it. No longer ashamed, she no longer feels the need to apologise for it either.

She’s fucking beautiful, and she should know. She’ll show her; she’ll feel it.

She drinks her in, eyes flitting up and down, mapping out where she wants to kiss next, where she wants to touch and mark her territory. She watches the flush on Naomi’s cheeks deepen, and she realises she’s been staring. She’s wanted this for so long, that every second needs to count. She’s terrified that if they stop for too long, Naomi will suddenly realise what she’s doing and back away, run away, like she has so many times before. If things stop, then _she’ll_ think too, worry, and doubt herself like she always does. Where Naomi’s concerned, there’s always questions: what they’re doing; what she’s doing; what’s happening between them, what name it has; what it means, what it’ll do to everyone else. They jumble in her head, the alcohol clouding everything. The only thing clear to her is Naomi; that she wants her, needs her.

It’s need and fear that pulls them back together.

Naomi pulls her down, into a deeper, lingering kiss, hands tangling through her hair, pulling slightly as they rake through the layers. She feels it, everywhere. It ebbs away to light, nothingy ones then, kissing for the sake of it; because neither wants to stop. She’s never felt this good just from kissing before, and wants the same for Naomi. Her hands start to wander, skimming down over Naomi’s shoulders, then her collarbone, following its shape before continuing her descent, exploring lighter still when she reaches Naomi’s breasts, cupping both at once, in a sudden flash of boldness. When Naomi moans, sweetly, surprised, she swallows it with another kiss. She takes it as a good sign in the absence of words, longing to hear it again – not that she thinks Naomi could say any words at all, beyond breathy little curses and other little epithets like “Oh” and “more” and “please,” because it’s all she can hear in her own mind.

***

Her palms circle; fingertips ghosting as she watches Naomi’s eyes widen, they say everything for her. She dips her head, kissing each breast carefully, before swirling her tongue round each nipple in lazy circles, feeling it stiffen under her touch. Naomi tenses under her, twisting into her, grabbing on to her arms for purchase, gasping. When she begins to suck lightly, pressing down with the tip of her tongue – she remembers reading it in a magazine, it had an exotic name that she can’t remember – the sound from Naomi is louder, sharper, and she arches into the touch, digging her nails into her arms. She flinches, dimly aware of the marks it’ll leave, but she doesn’t care, she just keeps going, concentrating solely on Naomi; giving her the attention she deserves. She just touches because she can, stroking the breast she isn’t kissing, grabbing sometimes, kneading a little even. She loves how they feel in her hands, in her mouth – nothing like she imagined, Naomi’s warmer and softer to the touch. Most of all, she loves she can make Naomi do this; how responsive she is, how desperate, how wanting.

Naomi says _something_ then, which she doesn’t catch – fucking ridiculous, given how close they are, how every part of them is touching in one way or another –it’s low, whispery, but still harsh somehow. It sounds different, like it’s a new word, there’s something like her name mixed in there, but it sounds so different because Naomi’s so incredibly turned on. Without warning, Naomi flips them both over, and suddenly, she’s underneath her instead. She murmurs against her lips, taken by surprise.  
She slides her hands around Naomi’s back, trailing over warm skin, feeling her muscles flex with her every move; tracing the lines she couldn’t see to sketch. Naomi pushes her down; thigh sliding between her legs. When Naomi’s knee presses at _exactly_ the right spot, her turn to groan, drawling a “Fuck … Naomi…” at the contact. There’s the faintest trace of a smile on Naomi’s lips, pleased with herself – very fucking pleased – but she doesn’t get much chance to analyse it, because Naomi’s mouth is on hers again, urgently as impatient hands tug at her top while she kisses a slow, wet trail down her neck.

 _Fuck_ she’s never imagined Naomi like this, so fucking eager.

Her eyes close briefly, and she lets out a sigh of contentment, feeling herself flood at Naomi’s words. She half smiles, letting her hands fall away. How could she possibly deny her? It’s a bit awkward at first, but then Naomi lets go of her nervousness and practically yanks off the polo shirt in one smooth little motion, stroking the newly-exposed skin. The only time she helps her is when it gets tangled in her hair, and she has to free it before Naomi can do anything else. It’s thrown off immediately, with no thought given to where it lands, and Naomi dives in for a kiss. Her squeaked little “Naomi” is lost in quicker, rougher kisses, teeth grazing lips when they don’t quite hit their intended target.

She’s craving more – more _anything_ as long as it comes with a Naomi attached. Her reward comes in slow, open-mouthed kisses, not caring that she has to angle her neck to the point that it’s painful just to get them; because Naomi’s hands are there again, cradling, one on her cheek and the other around the back of her head, in her hair. She loves the feeling of it; the need that Naomi has to anchor herself at all times. It’s a different kind of desperate, another kind of weakness, one that they both share. She breaks away, grudgingly, lungs demanding air, and Naomi leans back to look at her. Admire her.

The look in her eyes … Jesus Christ.

When she finally reaches for her top, wanting to be rid of her fucking clothes – just because she wants to feel all of all this, wants Naomi’s hands on _her_ , not what she’s wearing – Naomi shakes her head, covering her hands.

“I want to,” she whispers, licking her lips, self-conscious.

Her eyes close briefly, and she lets out a sigh of contentment, feeling herself flood at Naomi’s words. She half smiles, letting her hands fall away. How could she possibly deny her? It’s a bit awkward at first, but then Naomi lets go of her nervousness and practically yanks off the polo shirt in one go, stroking the newly-exposed skin as she goes. The only point she needs help is when it tangles in their hair, and they both let out a little laugh. Naomi dives back in for a kiss the second she’s thrown it off, not bothering to look where it lands. Her squeaked little “Naomi” is lost in a rough kiss, teeth grazing lips when they don’t quite hit their intended target.

She loses herself just that little bit more as they continue to kiss, and Naomi’s hands wander up her back, stopping short at her bra, before the kissing comes to an abrupt halt. For a moment, she’s confused, brows furrowing, quickly replaced by a small smile when she realises why.

Naomi’s has this adorable, shy look on her face, and it makes her heart skip, because this whole, sweet inexperienced side of her is entirely different to the know-it-all mouthing off in politics, flexing her intellect. To save Naomi further embarrassment, she reaches behind and unhooks it, letting it slide down her arms. She’s doing it a little for show, but Naomi doesn’t seem to mind, in fact, Naomi’s all too busy looking somewhere else. She leans forward, diminishing the gap between them, and pushes Naomi’s hair behind her ear, whispering, “There’s a trick, honey…” with a devilish smile. Naomi’s breath hitches, longer this time, shifting into a full-blown gasp – she likes that the most – when she kisses hotly around her ear, up her neck, right across her jaw and back up to her full, waiting lips, while her hands skim Naomi’s sides.

They cling to each other tightly, hands grasping for purchase, revelling in the sensation of their skin – their breasts – touching. She’s lost in the feeling of it, searching for the words to describe it, wanting to say all of this to Naomi, but she can’t find any, she can’t concentrate on anything but kissing her, unable to tell where one of those kisses ends and another begins. They fall back hard onto the pillows, not breaking it once. Her landing is cushioned by Naomi’s hand at the back of her head.

 

***

She turns away, letting out a ragged little breath when Naomi’s kisses drift downward, under her jaw, sucking tentatively at her throat; her tongue making soft little sweeps. She wills her to keep going, feeling her hands skate down her sides, across her ribcage, and then back up again. When Naomi begins to stroke her breasts  
She pushes up against her hands, wanting for her so much that it aches now, low in her belly, knowing that only more of Naomi, more of what they’re doing, will sate it. With a long sigh, she closes her eyes.

She never thought it would be this good; that she’d _feel_ this much.

Her eyes flutter open, and all she sees is a curtain of blonde. Naomi’s mouth on her skin, careful yet curious, mimicking her earlier touches, sucking in each of her nipples in turn, making them stand. Her mouth gapes, and she utters a barely there “Naomi,” feeling her murmur against her skin in return, dropping gentle kisses down her stomach, with just the slightest flick of her tongue.

Oh, you gorgeous girl … a fast learner.

She tenses in anticipation, feeling Naomi’s fingers working to undo her jeans, lightly touching the skin she exposes. She can barely hold it together knowing that Naomi’s so close. Unconsciously, her hips rise, and Naomi pulls hard to get them off, because they’re so tight – she looks good in them, it’s why she wore them – and after a few minutes of fumbling and a low, “Fucking hell, Ems,” from Naomi in frustration, she’s free of them, and they’re thrown off into the darkness.

All at once, Naomi’s back, lips bestowing fierce little kisses on her own. They’re starting to tingle now because they’ve kissed too much in too short a time span, but it’s all too easy carry on, to slip her tongue into Naomi’s waiting mouth while their hands skim all over each other; legs tangling together as they roll sideways. They kiss, slowly, lazily, for long minutes, muffling the sound of the moans that escape them, pushing past the point where their lungs burn. She guides Naomi’s hand downward, wanting for her to undress her completely, taken by surprise when that same hand breaks free of hers, fingers hooking the top of her knickers. They dip inside briefly, not really touching, but not entirely still either. She makes some sort of sound then – even she doesn’t know what it is, but _does_ know that no one else has made her do it, ever.

She’s dizzy with it all. Drunk in an entirely different way.

Flipping them both over, more carefully than last time, she wriggles her way out of her knickers – the world’s shortest striptease – while Naomi watches expectantly, intently, and she can see a tiny flicker of nervousness return. She feels it herself in the less than steady beating of her heart, in the crush Naomi’s looking causes in her chest. She crawls back up to her, purposefully taking longer than necessary to do so. By the time she’s drawn level with her again, the nervousness is gone, and those eyes are trailing all over her body once more. She captures the lip Naomi was chewing on moments earlier, kissing her in the same careful way that began things between them so long ago.

***

She slides teasingly down Naomi’s body, pressing kisses down her stomach, alternating with long, deliberate flicks of her tongue while her hands glide over Naomi’s hips, rounding her thighs, fingertips walking slowly up the inside of her right one. It’s the softest, most beautiful skin she’s ever touched.

This would never be in the drawing. This was hers.

It shouldn’t be a surprise really, that she’s so ready, but part of her is still shocked to find Naomi so wet, when she lets her fingers go that little bit further, and she meets nothing but warmth and slickness – deliciously slick – but a greater part of her is just smug, because after all, she’s caused it. She takes a breath to gather herself, glancing up at Naomi, as if asking permission.

She takes things gently at first, easing her into it – and herself really, she’s sure Naomi thinks of her as some grandmaster of lesbianism, and it’s just not true, drunken kisses and fumbling in alleys don’t really count – hooking her arms underneath Naomi’s legs, palms flat on her stomach, hoping to steady her, but really just needing to be closer, more connected, infinitely connected. It’s just kisses really, feather light, fearful of hurting her or being too rough. Naomi wasn’t someone you treated roughly, that was abundantly clear if she’s learnt nothing else at all.

To begin with, she trails the tip of her tongue over Naomi’s outer lips, sucking gently, giving the slightest pull, before turning her attention to Naomi’s clit. As soon as she presses her tongue to it, lightly circling, she hears her breathing change, from soft and even, to less so – hitching every couple of seconds when she presumably finds _just_ the right spot. It brings her own need to the forefront of her mind for the first time in a while, but this is about Naomi, not her.

“Emily…” it falls from her lips, low, seductive, needy.

Instinctively, she picks up the pace then, her tongue moving in broader, harder strokes. Naomi’s hips start to rise, her breathing gets heavier and her gasps louder.

All she hears is “Oh God … Emily … Oh,” over and over.

It’s a sound she’ll never tire of hearing, because she’s dreamt of hearing it for so long. It’s strange to suddenly have all these gaps filled that make her fantasy concrete: what Naomi’s body feels like against her own; how she sounds when she’s turned on; how she tastes – fucking good, as it goes, but nothing she could begin to describe to someone else if they asked.

She feels one of Naomi’s hands brush through her hair, pleading in its own silent way for more, so she gives it. Pressing her tongue flat to Naomi’s clit, she laps faster still, alternating with long slow licks; feeling that hand grab on, fingers clenching her hair tightly. It hurts a bit, when she starts to twist it, and pull – it’s so hard she could take half of it, if she let go right now – but she doesn’t care, sensing that Naomi’s _very_ near to coming. All it takes is a few more strokes and Naomi’s there. She feels every inch of her shudder, and the groan that accompanies her release is loud, unmistakable: it’s her name, clearer than she’s ever heard it, rolling again and again from Naomi’s mouth, so many times it sounds like a question.

It’s fucking glorious to see her like that, so completely free. Undone, she thinks, playing the word on her lips, licking them, tasting Naomi there. She closes her eyes momentarily, letting it all sink in. They’re each other’s undoing.

She just made Naomi fucking Campbell, Naomi Olivia Campbell, love of her fucking life, come and come hard. She couldn’t give a toss that she’s still clinging onto her hair for dear life, and she can’t actually move until Naomi lets go. She’d be happy to never move from this spot again.

Gently, she puts her hand on Naomi’s, attempting to work her fingers loose.

“Oh” is all she says, in a shaky little voice, after a few moments, and looks down at her, all flushed and breathless, relinquishing her grasp, adding a “Sorry.”

She’s sure she’ll never see anything sexier as long as she lives.

“Don’t be sorry,” she replies, sweetly, moving up slowly, wanting to be level with her again, because she finds herself needing to look at her; stupidly convinced she’ll have somehow changed.

She has. They both have.

She rests her arms either side of Naomi’s head, brushing away the stray locks of hair that have fallen across her face. The look in Naomi’s eyes is different now, different to anything she’s ever seen. When they kiss, deep and lingering, that’s different too. When Naomi’s arms wrap around her, holding her close, hands stroking her hair and her skin idly between yet more kisses, that’s the real difference.

All the while, she’s wondering if it’s love Naomi feels, and if she’s still afraid to declare it. Just like her.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Savour moments when the walls are blind.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For notes see [Chapter One](http://archiveofourown.org/works/734298/chapters/1365149).

***

_“Savour moments when the walls are blind.”_

***

“Naomi …”

She can hear something, but she’s not sure quite what it is, even less sure of how long she’s been asleep. It feels like seconds since she pulled Emily into her arms, watched her eyes close, felt her breathing change, and finally succumbed to sleep herself. It’s only when that sound repeats itself, slightly louder with a little more urgency, that she realises someone is calling to her, calling her. “ _Naomi_ , I have to go.” It’s clearer this time, unmistakably so. She smiles when she feels a gentle hand brush against her hair. She turns towards the sound, reaching, blindly, meeting with warm, soft, skin. A body. A familiar body.

 _Emily_. Beautiful Emily in her bed. Emily Jane Fitch in her bed.

She’s awake, barely, but she’s fighting it, not wanting to open her eyes, to end the dream. She likes it right now, likes how warm, how hazy it all is, like the best fucking MDMA tab she’s ever taken, only more, because they haven’t done that. In fact, that’s the only thing they _haven’t_ done tonight. Compared to the rest of the stuff, all the chemicals, all the feelings, probably still lingering in her system from the past few days, spliff was nothing. Spliff was fucking nursery – Effy called it that, a ‘nursery’ drug, it made her laugh – when she’s literally just graduated in terms of shagging.

Fucking fantastic, this. Now she knew what all the fuss was about. _Finally_.

Maybe this is happiness, genuine happiness. She can’t remember feeling like this before.

She forces herself to open her eyes and sees Emily, inches away from her, lying on her side, propped up slightly on one elbow. Her hair’s all messy – it’s quite lovely – and it makes her look different, older, less contained. The whole room’s bathed in that weird murky light where it’s not quite day and not quite night still either. Emily smiles shyly at her, and there’s a few seconds of awkwardness, where neither of them knows what to say.

“Stay,” she manages, finally. It comes out croaky, because her throat’s dry as fuck from the spliff. She turns onto her stomach, just watching, just looking, just hoping.

Emily tilts her head toward the ceiling and lets out a sigh, “Naomi…”

It’s the third time Emily’s said her name and they’ve all sounded different. This one does something different, makes her shiver, hits her hard, low in her stomach, sets off something in her that no one else can reach. Makes her want even more.

“It’s late… early … Mum will kill me…” Emily leans over and kisses her softly, more her hair than her head, as if she’s suddenly afraid of breaking her.

Emily’s right, the sane, rational part of her knows that. Emily’s phone probably has fifty odd missed calls. The Fitches were the kind of parents that kept tabs on their children, so forty-nine of them would be from her mum and the other few from Katie, fucking screaming down the phone as she’d witnessed so many times before. Mrs Fitch scared her to death, and she hadn’t even met her. The second-hand tales from Emily and Katie were enough to realise the fear they had wasn’t unjustified, and any threats their mother would make weren’t remotely empty.

And yet, she doesn’t want to let her go, not yet.

It seems that Emily doesn’t either. There’s look on her face that she can’t distinguish. It fleetingly crosses her mind that it’s only _ever_ been Emily who looks at her like that, so she’s got fuck all in the way of a frame of reference, except for the fact Emily looks exactly how she herself feels, is feeling: desperate? Fearful? Lustful? All of the above, all at fucking once. Her eyes look so … dark, almost black.

Emily’s left hand begins stroking idly down her back. She’s not tracing circles or figure-eights, but lines and curves, mimicking those her body makes naturally, going right down her spine, back and forth. It makes her think of rain trailing down windows, forming tiny rivulets. The touch is just as light. When Emily leans over her and presses barely there kisses down the same path, her hair tickling the skin as she passes, her eyes close again. Just when she thinks Emily’s going to stop, she carries on and retraces the same lines purposefully with her tongue – God, the things she could do with it – and Naomi lets out a little moan, biting down on her lip, it feels so good, too good to her, that it’s quite plausible she could draw blood and not realise.

“The line of beauty,” Emily breathes, mouth still against her skin, so the entire sentence reverberates right through her.

Just from the weight of the sound, it feels like it should mean something, but that involves thinking, and she’s nowhere near thinking at the moment. She just wants Emily to do what she did again, because every time she touches her, it feels like she’s throwing some fucking magical switch, pulling some special lever that just _ignites_ things inside of her that she never knew existed.

There’s another kiss to her shoulder then, light. Careful. Final.

Fuck. She can’t go.

She hears Emily sigh heavily, and it’s followed by the rustling of bed sheets and she watches her move toward the edge of the bed. Suddenly She’s very awake. Her heart drops, feels like it’s packed in beating altogether. She has to remind herself to breathe.

“Emily…” she turns slightly and reaches for her again, just missing the chance to catch hold of Emily’s wrist when she places an arm back to balance herself, moving to reach down for things she can’t see, moving toward leaving her.

It’s all happening in slow motion, but with devastating speed at the same time.

She knows that soon Emily won’t be within reach at all, that she’ll be looking for her clothes, that she’ll be wriggling her way back into those ridiculously tight jeans that she looks so good in, and she’s never really noticed, until now – never _let_ herself notice, that is. After fighting against wanting Emily in this room, no, in this bed, her bed for so long, now she’s fucking making her fight to keep her there. How ironic.

Even though Emily’s slipping through her fingers, she can’t help but look, finding herself fascinated by the way Emily’s body moves when she reaches for things, how her hair falls just so when she runs a hand through it.

So _fucking_ beautiful.

Cautiously, she crawls toward Emily, closing the space between them, so there’s barely anything at all, and she’s almost kneeling right against her. She skates a hand over Emily’s shoulder, then down in between her shoulder blades, aching to press a kiss there, and hears Emily’s breath hitch before she leans back into her. She should be cold, given that they’re now on top of her bed instead of in it, but she’s not, and neither is Emily; she’s still warm, bed-warm.

It’s intoxicating.

“Emily… _please_ ,” she doesn’t care how desperate that sounds. Her plea worked before, it’s what started all this. She snakes her arm around Emily’s waist, spreading her palm across her stomach, needing her closer, wanting her closer. She brushes away Emily’s hair and exposes her neck, kissing less carefully, hungrily, before stopping altogether, whispering “Don’t go,” into her ear.

Another sigh from Emily. A different kind.

Emily’s hand covers hers, and there’s a barely there “Naomi,” in reply, before she turns her head, leaning back a little, and then they’re kissing again, deeply, desperately. Emily’s tongue darts into her mouth at a moment’s notice, with the same rush of air and rush of adrenaline as when they kissed hours ago. Lifetimes ago. She doesn’t care that the angle’s weird, and not exactly comfortable, or that she’s going to lose balance at any second because any time Emily kisses her, it feels like her entire body melts into nothing.

It shouldn’t feel this good to _just_ kiss surely? Surely the lovesick twats who eat each other’s faces off at college, pressed against the nearest available surface didn’t feel this way? Then, Emily lets out a little moan of appreciation and it’s like proof. Clearly it’s not just her that likes it. Emily’s other hand moves up into her hair, fingertips dragging and trailing through the layers. That, combined with the kissing – the incredibly good kissing – means she almost loses it entirely.

There’s still a pretty big part of her brain that’s reeling from the fact that cute, shy, sweet, Emily Fitch is kissing her, has touched her, fucked her. She might have the face of an angel, but she’s a devil when it comes this. When they pull apart, grudgingly, Emily lets go of her, and she thinks that’s it, game over. That they’ve had their final snogging session, and Emily’s going to live up to her reputation as the good twin, the good daughter, and go home. Resigned to it, she draws her arm back, freeing Emily from her embrace and lowers her gaze, focussing on the carpet like it’s the most interesting thing she’s seen in all her life; heart sinking feels the bed dip, and hears Emily’s feet touch the carpet.

She looks up in surprise when Emily delicately taps her on the chin, coaxing her into lifting her head, “Since you asked so nicely,” Emily drawls – in the soft raspy tone she’s secretly adored for so long – looking her in the eyes, before slowly settling into her lap.

All she can do is watch, fascinated.

Emily doesn’t so much as flinch, and carries on talking. “I think,” she smiles, “I’ll stay,” she adds, finally, pressing quick soft kisses to her lips, punctuating the sentence.

She drops her hands to Emily’s thighs instinctively, and she leans closer. When Emily’s arms go around her neck, She exhales a shaky breath, entirely stuck on the fact that a very naked Emily is in her lap, and nearly every part of them is touching.

Seriously fucking hot.

She nods slowly, letting a longer breath go. Feeling herself steady. It’s then that her heart slows down, and her fear ebbs away again. She doesn’t want to think anymore. She just wants. Wants Emily. She wants to be wrapped up in her again, feel her everywhere, breathe her in. Touch her. Taste her. Emily has to know what this feels like. This … bliss. When she tries to speak, to say just that, just to see how Emily will react, she’s silenced by Emily’s fingertips, skating over her lips, shushing her, before Emily’s other hand curves more insistently around the back of her head, pulling her into another kiss; so fierce that it takes her breath.

***

The kissing’s slowed down now, just a bit – her lungs thank her for that, silently – and they’re nothing really for a while, they hardly touch and it’s all very still. They’re just sat, still holding onto each other, with her palm spread on the small of Emily’s back, tracing circles unconsciously, keeping them both steady. It was weird, at first, having to tilt her head slightly upward to kiss Emily, because even though they’ve kissed a lot already, it’s always Emily in this position.

Suddenly, something in them both, at more or less the same time, shifts, and they go from that extreme slowness to completely the opposite end of the spectrum, to a fast, mad, almost frenzied – it’s not the right word, but fuck words at the moment – sort of kissing. They drop little pecks everywhere – neck, shoulders, jaw, breasts, and back again – and they’re all over each other, hands everywhere, touching, kissing whatever they can reach. It’s all breathless and greedy and she loves it, when she’s never really liked this whole spit-swapping business previously.

Somewhere in it all, she thinks she’s actually realised Emily’s skin tastes different to her own. But there’s no time for theories and wondering, because Emily’s guiding her backwards without even touching her or saying a word, except her eyes _do_ say something, something like ‘I will have you.’ It makes her swallow hard, and she feels desire pool again between her legs, knowing – firmly knowing – that Emily will need little or no encouragement to see to it that those desires are satisfied, sated … again.

She doesn’t need any real prompting to move back, she just senses it’s right, because Emily’s made it clear they’ll be doing more than kissing and they’re doing it now. She hurriedly shifts round and lies down, arranging herself, readying herself, knowing that Emily’s watching. Her head’s barely on the pillow for a second before she’s looking to Emily, waiting for the next move. She can’t help but think it’s a bit predatory, the way Emily’s inching up her body, all felinely. It’s fucking sexy – and sexy is never a word she would’ve used for Emily before … all this. Of course, Emily undercuts that completely, because she’s but she’s looking at her in completely the opposite way, so adorably, adoringly, like she’s won some incredibly important prize.

It takes her a few seconds to realise that the prize is her.

Emily’s hands skim slowly over her skin in the same, trickling, light way they did before. Somehow, it does more for, and more to her than if it was harder and more deliberate. First, it’s over her thighs, just the fingertips, flittering over the softer, more sensitive skin on the inside. Her eyes fall closed, and her teeth graze against her bottom lip, trying to contain herself. She’s being watched, she knows, feeling Emily’s eyes on her, curious, intense. Then, it continues upward, moving over her hips, trailing light kisses along her ribcage. When those touches make it to the curve of her breast, it’s lighter still, so light, it’s like she’s just breathing on her skin. Emily cups them then, thumb rubbing across one nipple, and then the other, placing light kisses on each one, sweeping her tongue across. She lets out a little groan, and she’s sure she feels her smile against her skin, victorious. That mouth moves higher, and kisses a wet trail up her neck, sucking on the skin. She shudders, throwing her head back, revelling in it. Her breath hitches, and a quiet “Emily” drops out of her mouth when she finally exhales. The hand that’s not stroking Emily’s shoulder – because she needed something to hold on to all that time – closes around the bedclothes in a reflexive fist.

Oh …

She doesn’t have to add anything else to that sentence, because Emily’s properly on top of her again, straddling her thigh, but it’s still not enough. She reaches for her, grabbing her by the neck to pull her down further, kissing her roughly, a little harder than she meant. There’s no shock from Emily though, she matches her, kissing back, equally hard. She draws her thigh upward, because it feels like the right thing to do, and she gets the same reaction from Emily as last time, with a “Naomi,” coming out in a low groan. Emily’s wet, she can feel it now, what she does to her, and even though she shouldn’t be all that surprised, she is.

“All you,” Emily murmurs, looking her up and down, lingering every so often.

“Jesus, Emily…” is all she can manage, she can’t stop looking at her, not quite believing what she’s just heard – firstly that Emily’s said it at all and secondly, that she’s made it happen.

Having power, having power over her is a strange feeling.

“True,” Emily whispers huskily in her ear, walking her fingers down her ribcage purposefully, making her shudder. “Always you,”

Emily pulls away slightly, taking in her reaction, a smile playing on her lips.

Emily… fuck …

All she wants to do is kiss those lips, because even when Emily smiles that way in a completely mundane setting – like in the middle of English, when she’s cutting people down in her authoritative quiet way, since she actually reads what they’re told – it does the same to her, makes her feel breathless and giddy, and it takes all she has to hold it in.

Except this time, she doesn’t have to.

So, she kisses her, soft – because even her mouth is starting to hurt a bit; buzzing, tingling, like a bruise, but a nice bruise – but deep, moving her hand up to thread in to Emily’s hair, still revelling in the fact it’s so soft, and lovely – everything about her is, she reckons. That’s confirmed a few moments later when she lets go of her, only to explore her that little bit more. She moves her hands up Emily’s sides, trailing slowly, cupping both hands at once over Emily’s breasts. It’s still a marvel, touching them, touching another girl’s. She’s left staring at them in her hands, not quite believing they’re there or how they feel. They’re perfect. Emily’s eyes close, and her head tilts back a little bit, obviously liking it. Even though Emily can’t see, she smiles.

Fuck, she feels amazing.

“Yes,” is Emily’s breathy little response when she continues her descent, fingertips smoothing over Emily hips, a little lighter over her thighs.

She plays her boldest move then, grabbing at Emily’s arse, squeezing a little, pulling her closer in the process – bit brave that, but she’s just going with what she thinks Emily might like, and it seems to be working. This is girl they should call ‘peachy’ she thinks, rounding and squeezing for the second time. They all look at the wrong one. Emily should be the one they’re all obsessed with. She’s the real beauty: unaffected, quiet and unassuming, but just waiting to seen, waiting to dazzle.

Waiting to dazzle _her_.

Emily exhales a shuddering “fuck” in response to her touch before they kiss again. It’s sloppy at first, and Emily almost misses her mouth entirely until her hand goes up to cradle Emily’s face. Then, it’s just heavy, with loads of tongue – it’s fucking good, and she thinks Emily’s a kissing genius or something, because every time is different and it’s never _just_ a kiss – Emily’s hands grip her shoulders tight, pressing her back into the mattress. Clearly, she wants more.

Oh Christ.

“Ems,” she manages to say, in the briefest of breaks before Emily attacks her mouth all over again. Emily cuts her off before she can say anything else.

“Kiss me. Just kiss me,” Emily replies, in this desperate way that suggests talking is an inefficient use of time, adding an urgent, low, “I need you, Naomi,” when they break for air next time.

It’s the first time Emily’s asked, no, demanded, anything of her.

There are no more words, only kissing, just like Emily wants – like she wants too. She shifts her weight, not flipping them over forcefully, or pushing Emily roughly into the mattress like she feels like doing, because when people say things like that to you, you’re supposed to respond with that passionate, aggressive shit, like people in films. Except, this isn’t a film, no matter if it feels like one or that sometimes this isn’t really happening to her at all – like some strange, vivid, yet beautiful dream. It doesn’t feel right though, she doesn’t want to throw Emily about. She wants to be gentle with her, because she deserves it.

She lavishes her with kisses, slowly trailing down her neck, across her collarbone, teeth nipping just a bit as she goes. The breathy little moan that follows each one just makes her want to do more, test things out – not like they haven’t been – but she likes waiting for the reaction, likes that she can do this. Though she has every intention of kissing Emily gently, of just lying there and kissing for ages, because she’d like to do just that, but Emily’s mouth’s just too tempting – and she’s never really wanted to kiss anyone before – so it all goes out the window soon after she thinks of it. There’s too much going on, there’s too much of Emily, because somehow, in all those delicious little twists and turns, Emily’s moans have gotten louder, and she’s wrapped around her completely, legs tight around her waist, and it’s fucking hot.

This is it, this is what she’s craved, been craving, they’re completely entangled; just like she’s wanted ever since she woke up. It’s not light kisses anymore, it’s the passionate, lingering kind that turns minutes into hours and she can’t get enough.

Yes.

***

“Show me, Ems,” she whispers, licking her suddenly dry lips when they pull apart, breathless. She’s a bit nervous, a lot nervous.

It’s not what she wanted to say – ‘I want to touch you’ sounds too PG, ‘I want to fuck you’ sounds too filthy – and her voice is wavering too much for her request to sound remotely seductive. Suddenly, she feels stupid, because winging it only goes so far, because she’s actually thinking about where Emily wants to be touched, needs to be touched, because it’s all a bit like science and a lot less sexy, she doesn’t know where to put herself. Doing it to yourself and doing it to someone else are _very_ different things, and although she’s picked stuff up as they’ve gone along, she can’t remember what the hell Emily was doing to her before. Mostly because she was far too lost in the fact that Emily was _doing it_ to concentrate on the mechanics of it all.

Oh fuck.

There’s a few agonising seconds where Emily’s just _looking_ up at her, and it dawns on her that she might need more than that very shaky statement to get what the fuck she’s going on about. All she can hear is her heart pounding, metering out the panic, like it has all along, except it was easier to ignore when Emily’s mouth and Emily’s hands were providing distractions – fucking amazing distractions at that. Finally, after what seems like forever, Emily smiles at her, and gives a little nod. Even though it’s incredibly sweet, there’s a glint in her eyes too, that it’s suddenly better because she’s asked, and it makes her realise it’s less nerve-wracking, simply _because_ it’s Emily, and none of it will be wrong, none of it will be bad.

“Yes,” Emily states, just as quietly, reaching up to push away the hair that’s fallen into her eyes, sliding it down to cradle her face. It’s flushed, she’s sure, because it feels like she’s on fire, both because she’s fucking turned on – and just imagining what’s going to happen is making her wet all over again, setting off a familiar ache inside of her – and incredibly embarrassed at the same time.

The first part of it’s easy, because they’re still very much entwined, and all she has to do is move up little higher, so they’re level again. It was smooth, how it happened before, with Emily leading everything, but now it just feels awkward. When she kisses her next, it’s a chaste little peck, perfunctory, like they’re in middle school again, and it’s all a bit ridiculous.

She takes a breath, growing angry with herself.

“Just relax. It’s OK,” Emily says, in this soft little voice that does her in completely.

She lets out a breath, and leans down to kiss Emily again. It’s true; she feels all the tension go out of her the second their mouths touch. They brush together, barely, and it’s not even a proper kiss at first until Emily tilts her head up that little bit extra and makes it one. It’s languid and gentle, completely different to how she’s been kissed before. Better than anyone else before.

Right in the middle another kiss – the third, maybe, she’s lost count, because they all meld together deliciously – Emily moves a little under her and she follows, moving back a bit. She watches, feeling her mouth start to gape as Emily opens her legs, spreading them. It turns her on beyond belief, seeing Emily like this because it’s so obviously for her, this little show. There’s a smile on her face, just the slightest trace, which says she’s revelling in it. Emily reaches, taking her hand in her own, trailing it down her stomach and then between her legs, pressing on her fingers to make the right movements as they go. She begins to touch her barely, letting Emily continue to guide her.

It’s terrifying and exciting all at once.

She has no idea how Emily can concentrate, because the second she’s there, it’s less easy to focus. The slickness she expected, Emily already made that obvious, but it’s the rest of it that’s different. Her uniqueness. She can’t get over how warm Emily is, how soft. It’s strange, but a lovely kind of strange.

“Like this,” Emily states, in a tone quite different to how she was expecting. Instructional, calm, but fucking sexy with it. Their joined hands begin to rub Emily’s clit, drawing tiny circles on the tip. They carry on like this for a few moments until she gets it: this is the way that Emily likes it.

The mere thought that she’s being taught it, that this is _exactly_ the way Emily likes to be touched, maybe has touched herself sometimes, maybe did it thinking about her, makes her flood. Her brain lags behind while she tries to get a handle on it all, constantly stumbling over who’s saying all this and what they’re doing.

She panics a few seconds later when she realises Emily’s hand is gone and it’s suddenly all on her.

Emily’s eyes flutter closed, but she keeps on watching her for the smallest sign, the tiniest change that could reveal something. The worst thing she could do to Emily is stop, so she carries on circling, with barely any pressure at all. Partly out of sheer habit and partly out of curiosity, she presses a second finger against Emily’s clit, circling more steadily, and she feels her getting wetter and wetter. The change causes Emily to gasp, and a shocked little “fuck” follows it, and one of her hands goes to grip the sheet.

Now, she feels a lot less stupid and a lot more like a champion. She fights to keep from smiling, but she can’t quite resist dipping her head down and saying, “Like this?” in Emily’s ear. It’s meant to sound innocent, but she sounds a bit smug instead.  
“Yes … fuck … don’t stop,” comes Emily’s reply, between shuddering breaths.

When she moves a little, just to change position, wanting to be closer to her – entirely ridiculous since she couldn’t touch her in a more intimate place, and their really isn’t a massive distance between them – it makes Emily gasp sharply, and in turn makes her remember that she’s still touching her, that her hand is connected, connecting, to something. She whispers a little “sorry,” pushing away slightly damp strands of hair from Emily’s face before kissing her lightly on the forehead, tasting the saltiness of sweat, but something uniquely Emily too. Her mouth drifts down to Emily’s, and she kisses lighter still, pulling slowly back to look at her.

Emily opens her eyes and their gazes meet. It’s never been so intense. Emily’s face says she needn’t be sorry at all.

She doesn’t stray from her task for a second.

With every sweep, Emily’s moans grow, her breath hitching, more uneven. Emily holds onto her tightly, her nails digging into her shoulder, hard, sliding down her back, beginning to claw but she doesn’t care, lost in the deep, open-mouthed kisses they’re sharing, intended to try and disguise some of the noise, but they don’t really work. Within minutes, they grow lazier and more mistimed. Sometimes, their lips just press together so they’re sharing air and it’s like Emily’s part of her. Emily’s all she can hear and all she can feel, resonating deep in her bones.

Jesus …

She can barely stand it it’s so hot.

Seeing Emily like this is doing a lot more for her that she anticipated it would, especially when her hips starts to rise, and she’s moving against her, no, with her. She begins to move a little faster, drifting away from touching Emily’s clit directly, drifting downward, just stroking her, back and forth, slowly, wondering if it feels right, if it feels good, if she’s being too slow or too careful.

“Naomi …” it’s louder this time, much louder.

Definitely the right thing.

So, she does it again and again, faster, harder, drifting back up to Emily’s clit every so often.

“Please Naomi,” it’s a strangled little whimper this time. Emily sounds so desperate, so wanting, that suddenly she finds it’s hard to breathe. She sees the shape of her name on Emily’s lips more than she hears the sound, “Oh… please … more.”

Emily’s free hand reaches down in the scant space between them, separating her fingers, guiding them downwards.

It suddenly clicks in her head exactly what she wants.

_Oh._

She’s almost afraid when Emily pushes her fingers that little bit more, making them finally go inside of her. Though Emily wants it – she’s made that very clear – she’s terrified of hurting her somehow. She moves a finger barely, and she hears Emily exhale in contentment, she stills it again just as quickly.

“There … yes,” is all Emily can manage, her voice is lower, throaty, entirely unlike she’s ever heard. Emily holds her gaze, very deliberately letting go of her wrist. “Yes,” she repeats, her voice tailing off to nothing.

She almost dies on the spot.

“Tell me if I …” she swallows, mouth suddenly inexplicably dry, “hurt you?”

A smile from Emily then, “You won’t.”

She just nods, feeling more comfortable, a tiny bit more confident. She moves carefully, and it’s a bit off pace and awkward until Emily begins to move her hips again, showing her, setting their rhythm, and it’s all a lot easier then, more natural and less something she has to focus on. She loves this, the idea of it, the reality of it, knowing that she’s giving Emily such pleasure. When she adds a cautiously sweeping thumb back onto Emily’s clit, pressing flatly at first, before moving slowly, not quite circles like she showed her, something different, it gets a different kind of moan of approval in return, surprised, light, yet ragged.

“Yes … Naomi … that’s –” is all Emily can say.

***

When Emily settles her thigh right between her legs, she’s the one caught off-guard. Whether by accident or design, Emily gets her _completely_ where she needs it, causing her to bite back a moan. It suddenly dawns on her things will be happening for the both of them.

“Ems, Jesus,” she breathes, slowing down her movements and almost withdrawing from Emily completely because she’s so thrown.

“Don’t stop,” Emily replies, pulling her into a rough kiss, their lips crash together once, twice, in quick succession. “Move with me,” she adds, breathlessly, when those kisses are grudgingly brought to an end.

She nods again and reaches, her free hand entwining with Emily’s, pushing it back against the mattress. Emily grips tightly back in return. It gives her that bit more leverage to up things little, and she presses inside Emily with more purpose, easily sliding in another finger, going faster, harder, in more or less the same time as she herself is moving, grinding down on Emily’s thigh.

All she can hear is their breathing, Emily’s: catching and uneven, her own: rapid, getting shallower. The room suddenly feels airless, thick and heavy, she’s burning, she can feel that too; sweat beading her skin, just like Emily’s. It should make her stop but it doesn’t. Emily has to steady her now, threading her other arm around her neck – it’s cool compared to her – holding on, anchoring, nails digging in – so there’s hardly any space between their bodies at all. The only part of them that isn’t touching are their mouths, separated by millimetres, but they can’t seem to find each other. They’re caring less about how loud the words that that fall from their lips, like “fuck,” and “more” and “yes” and she has no real idea if she’s saying them or Emily is, maybe it’s both. There’s too much going on and it’s far too good to concentrate on anything but doing it. Fucking. Yes, that’s exactly it. She’s fucking Emily, they’re fucking. God, she loves it, loves the sound of it, the feel of it.

It’s even better than the first time.

“Good … so good, Naomi… fuck… harder… please,” Emily’s so desperate it almost hurts her to hear it.

“Yes. Fuck … Ems,” she pushes away her own need in favour of Emily’s because just seeing her like this is _almost_ enough at this point.

She slows her other movements down, and does as she’s told, pushing deeper and harder. She screws her eyes closed, focussed, listening, determined to make Emily come, giving her the release she so craves, deserves. It feels like she’s almost there. It dawns on her, belatedly that quite soon – no, make that _very_ soon, she’ll do it, because Emily’s grip on her has tightened further. Her eyes open again, wanting to watch it happen, slowing things down again. Emily’s head is turned away from her, thrown back, face flushed, nearly as red as her hair. Seeing her that way makes her speed up instead, to the point that it’s making her wrist ache, but she doesn’t care; cares even less that the rest of her is aching too from all the exertion, but it’s the best kind of pain.

Then, it happens.

Oh. My. God.

Emily groans loudly. She’s not fast enough to even attempt to mask any of it, but she’s glad, because it’s beautiful, joyous, kind of wondrous, that sound; because she’s never heard anything like it or felt anything like it either. She’s saying her name over and over, like it’s a special word, like no one’s ever said it, as she clenches around her fingers. The muscles tense and relax for what feels like a thousand times, before Emily goes quiet and she eases her out of her, slowly – she’s curious to taste her, but not brave enough to. It’s the strangest, most wonderful sensation ever, feeling that, sharing that, seeing it. She wants and she wants to tell Emily all of those thoughts, but she’s lost for words.

She’s never looked more beautiful to her.

Rolling on to her side, she takes Emily with her and they lie together, quiet for what seems like a long time, but it’s a comfortable silence. It wouldn’t feel right to speak; even if she had any idea what to say. All she can do is listen and wait, letting Emily recover, letting herself recover as she holds her close. Stroking her face, she realises Emily’s still shaking, feels it even when she grazes her lips against Emily’s in the faintest ghost of a kiss. She’s surprised when Emily kisses back, and climbs on top of her.

Emily takes another deep breath, smiling, beaming, glowing. Satisfied.

Gorgeous. Completely and utterly gorgeous.

“You,” she begins, in a low, seductive whisper that makes her shiver. “Naomi Campbell,” she pauses, to trace single finger around her jaw line. “Are a _very_ fast learner,” she finishes, before giving her a quick peck on the lips, muffling the laugher that escapes at her words.

She gazes down at her, smiling in that sweet Emily way and it makes her stomach flip.

It’s her turn to smile then, embarrassed by Emily’s praise.

Instead of answering, she captures Emily’s mouth in a soft kiss, their lips barely moving. They stay that way, kissing when it strikes them, gazing at each other through heavy-lidded eyes, neither wanting to give in to sleep.

When they both shudder against the cold, she reaches down for the duvet, just managing to grasp it without too much effort, covering them both. She finds herself running her fingers through Emily’s hair for no reason at all when her right hand falls to rest on the top of her head. Emily mutters a sleepy, “thank you,” in return and pulls up the covers further, cocooning them both, before pressing a quick kiss right over her heart. It stops then, she’s sure, surer still that Emily can hear it pounding loudly when she lays her head back down on her chest, settling herself there.

Instinctively, her legs wrap around Emily, and she lets out a contented sigh as she carries on stroking her hair idly. It’s strange at first, having Emily so close like this, still so attached, entangled. She should be able to feel the weight of her body pressing down, but she can’t. Emily’s so light, it feels like she’s not even there; like a feather, which sounds fucking stupid, because it makes her sound like she’s nothing at all, when she’s the very opposite. Having her there is just comfortable, soothing… but it’s more than that too, it’s like she should lie there like that all the time. She smiles to herself, sighing again, putting her other arm around Emily’s shoulders under the bedclothes. It causes her to murmur something she doesn’t catch, and she feels Emily’s arm drape across her stomach, lazily caressing her every so often.

Eventually, the kisses, touches and idle stroking of hair tails off into nothing, and she’s just lying there with her, wanting to keep hold, not wanting to let go. She can barely keep her eyes open and yet, she can’t seem to make herself go to sleep either, even though she knows full well that Emily drifted off to sleep ages ago.

There’s no reason to fight it anymore.

“I … I love you, Emily,” she says, quietly, before she finally lets her eyes close, exhausted.

***

She wakes first this time, still stuck in that vague in between space that’s half asleep and half awake. Rubbing her eyes, she forces herself to focus, pushing away the last few fragmentary images of a dream, gone from her mind as soon as she tries to think what it might have been. Not really wanting to move, she angles herself to look at the clock on the wall, somewhat awkwardly, hearing her bones click and creak in protest when she does.

Finally, she manages to make out it says eight; presumably that’s eight in the morning and not in the evening. Yes, it’s far too fucking light, _really_ fucking light. Why the hell was she awake so early? Why did her head ache so much and what’s this … stuff … all over the place? There’s the faint smell of incense, what looks like hundreds of candles burned down to the wick, with pools of wax solidified on almost every flat surface. There’s clothes, clothes that aren’t hers and papers everywhere, and fucking _Chopin_ is playing, quietly. Her head feels heavy and fuzzy, confusion answered to a degree when she spies an empty bottle of wine on her desk. Wine that she doesn’t even like to drink.

Fuck this.

It’s all too much to try and sort out, especially on so little sleep. She closes her eyes and turns over, pulling the duvet and the sheets with her. It’d have to fucking wait, because she’s knackered, and it’s a … Saturday? Sunday? Either way, there’s no college on, so anyone who dares to come in this room can get fucked if they think she’s getting out of bed anytime soon … because she’s never drink –

What …

She stalls mid thought, surprised when she makes contact with something, no, _someone_ else. Fucking Alan, he’s always wandering around in the night, because he sleepwalks, except, the person isn’t lying top and tail, like usual, but next to her instead. It’s then that she realises it’s not Alan at all. The frame’s too small, much too tiny for a man. There’s no garish red socks; no manly, horrible, hairy legs or rough skin; only smoothness, perfect smoothness, that her fingertips can’t help but be drawn to and need to touch, but she stops herself short. The only red is dark red hair spread across the pillow next to her, silky and soft. That, she touches, that feels safe to touch.

 _Emily_.

Emily fucking Fitch is in her bed. Emily Jane Fitch in her bed … Naked.

As soon as she realises, it’s like that final puzzle piece falling into place with a satisfying dull snap, and you see the picture completed, wasting God knows how long looking at it, marvelling at your own brain power. Except, she isn’t marvelling and there’s nothing remotely fucking satisfying about this revelation, because she can’t think, her brain’s lagging behind, full of that horrible, clouded, nagging feeling that something monumental has happened and she can’t quite remember what that is.

Then, it happens.

It all floods into her head in one big rush: Kentish Reg’s spliff; that fucking horrible fucking wine – Katie’s fucking wine – them talking; how sweet, kind and cute Emily was, getting all excited about things they liked; the drawing – how tense it was and how patient Emily was ... Emily kissed her … Emily fucked her… Emily showed her just how she liked to be fucked … In this bed.

She let her do it.

She wanted it.

She liked it.

She wants to do it again, now.

She’s in love with a girl.

She’s in love with Emily.

She said she loved her.

She’s terrified because of all those things.

***

She sits up slowly, afraid of waking Emily, afraid of what will happen if and when she does, and they’re face-to-face, without super strong spliff, shit wine and the bliss of steady orgasms to cloak things. It’s then she starts to panic, that the weight of it all crashes down on her from a great fucking height. It’s suffocating.

_Fuck._

Now she can’t do anything _but_ think.

What Emily will want of her, what she’ll expect, what she’ll need, what she’ll demand? They’re all different you see, at least, to her they are. She looks up at the ceiling and screws her eyes shut. She has no idea what to do, how she should feel, hating that she feels anything at all.

“Jesus,” she breathes, pulling up the duvet and the sheets out of reflex, overwhelmed, hugging her knees. Her heart slams painfully in her chest, as if stuck, never able to beat again. “What am I doing?”

When she turns, and takes a fleeting look at Emily, at her sweet, gorgeous little sleeping face – so completely calm and at peace – She’s never looked like that when she’s asleep, she’s sure of it. She’s sure of something else too; her heart is breaking, in this very moment, can almost see it shattering, because she’s never felt so hurt by something, someone so beautiful in all her life.

She can’t stand it and can’t be next to her knowing that either. She has to get the fuck out of this bed, out of this room. She’d get on her bike and peddle as fast as she could for as long as she could. She’d ignore her lungs when they burned, push though the pain she’d get in her legs, everything in her pleading for her to stop.

All this closeness, it was too much, but now there was no way the distance could be put back. There was no magic way to erase it all. The line, whatever and wherever it was, had been crossed. If she left now, while Emily was still asleep, it would be easier, it’d be OK. They’d be alright. College wasn’t like school. They could keep it a secret, never talk of it again. Eventually, their circle of friends would widen, and they’d drift apart, and it’d be OK.

Yes. Fine. Perfect.

Then, ages from now, she’d remember Emily the way everyone else remembers the first person they slept with. Whenever someone would say Emily Fitch, she’d think of her and smile, recalling that sweet, shy, tiny girl with the beautiful smile and cherry red hair. But right now, Emily was more than a memory, Emily was very real. Emily Fitch had made her come, more than once. Emily Fitch’s mouth and Emily Fitch’s fingertips worked magic – they pressed against her, so carefully and so gently, as if she’d break.

She squeezes her thighs together at the memory of it, aching with how good it felt.

The breath she’s about to take stalls in her lungs.

In one swift move, she pushes back the covers, and scrambles out the bed, away from Emily, like she’s contagious, dangerous, radioactive, and just stands there, looking. She crosses her arms over herself, shivering with cold, feeling naked in more ways than one.

“I’m sorry,” she says, quietly, turning away from her, feeling herself choke up, her chest suddenly tight again.

Shivering again, she throws on the nearest thing, her bright yellow check shirt, recalling, with a stab of pain to her heart that Emily likes it. That’s almost enough to make her think twice, but it’s not like she’s in any sort of state to be looking around for anything else. So, she goes with it, wrapping an old grey cardigan around herself for warmth. It’s too big for her, hangs off her, since it’s her dad’s, one of the few things she managed to salvage before mum went on a rampage and burnt all his stuff in the garden on her thirteenth birthday. What a way to celebrate. It took her that long to get over his leaving. It’d hurt Emily if she woke up now and saw her doing the same thing in that same underhand, cruel way. Like she didn’t matter and she didn’t care, going about her business like nothing had happened, just stood there pulling on her clothes – missing buttons because she’s moving so fast – but she couldn’t stay either, doesn’t trust herself to.

Stumbling backward, she lets out a pained “fuck” when she trips over one of Emily’s shoes and lands in a heap on the floor, banging her head on the chest of draws in the process. There are no words this time, all she does is flinch at the contact, unsurprised when a single tear rolls down her cheek. It’s not really painful, there’s a dull sort of ache, but it’s no different to the one she feels already. For a few agonising seconds, she thinks the noise has woken Emily up, and she’s more than a little relieved when she sits up to see that she still is, wrapped up in the duvet, with one leg exposed, lying almost diagonal, head on the pillow that she herself was previously resting on. Emily reaches, her head nuzzling the space where she just was lying. An arm goes out and meets with nothingness.

Emily …

It’ll break her heart. She can’t bear it. Hates it. Hates herself.

She scrambles to her feet, heading for the door, praying she makes it before Emily stirs. To top it all, she crashes into her record box on her way, sending the entire thing spilling out onto the carpet and making a right fucking racket in the process. Instead of picking them all up, she just carries on and steps over them, not even bothering to stop when she hears one of them crack under her feet. There’s not so much as a glance in Emily’s direction either. Her panic doubles when she hears Emily murmur a “Naomi” in her sleep.

There it is again, that horrible, clenching feeling around her heart, as if it’s being squeezed empty, drained of blood.

Fumbling with the lock on the door, she curses inwardly, realising its jammed. It’s typical, fucking typical, nothing fucking works in their house, that’s what you get for make-do-and-mend, for third hand and antique. She rattles it violently, slamming it with the heel of her hand – it’ll bruise – against it hard before it finally releases, fucking her wrist up good and proper in the process and making enough noise to wake the street never mind Emily. Everything’s conspiring against her: she wants to leave, so she’s locked in; she wants to be quiet, so she can’t help but make noise; she wants to … well there are a lot of things she wants where Emily’s concerned, and some of them she isn’t even sure _if_ she wants them at all.

Finally, she finally makes it out, and she takes a deep breath, feeling light headed, not quite able to breathe as deeply as she needs to, struggling to do it, struggling to stand, struggling to deal with all of it. Now she’s out, all she can think of is going back in. Her hand hovers by the handle, an inch – less – away from depressing it. She could fix it, she could get back into bed with Emily and stay there. But, of course, she can’t now, because if by some fucking miracle Emily wasn’t woken up by her leaving, then her returning would definitely do it. The worst thing is, Emily would know, she’d realise that she left her.

All Emily would need to do is look at her, and she’d know everything: she’d figure it all out, that she’s scared and confused and all she wants to do is run.

She’s always known.

***

It doesn’t get any better.

The stairs are a fucking death-trap at the best of times, but today was all time high. She’d cleared the way for Emily’s arrival yesterday, but it seemed that everybody had reverted back to normal, and didn’t give a toss about the fact that other people could break their neck at any fucking given point during the descent. The baby toys she could stand, that was a given, and even the mountainous piles of campaign literature, but what she couldn’t stomach, especially in this mood, was the fact that Imogen’s fucking folding bicycle – unfolded – was right there on the turn.

Fucking Imogen, the selfish, pious … cunt.

She feels like chucking it off the roof or smashing it to bits with Alan’s saw just to teach her a fucking lesson. Of course, she doesn’t do any of those things, she just lifts it out of her path and places it against the wall opposite Imogen’s room – yes, the cow gets her own, like she’s their surrogate fucking daughter or something. The sooner she fucks off back to Cambridge; the better. What shit was Imogen smoking? She could have tripped on that damn thing – were it not for her fast reflexes, she would have. Thank God she hadn’t gone down in the night when she was drunk or worse, Emily. She shudders at the thought. They’d probably be in fucking A and E on a drip or in a fucking coma after earning a bastard fractured skull.

It would probably hurt less than this.

Having survived that little unofficial assault course – it looked like something off Total sodding Wipeout, for fuck’s sake – she thought she was safe, and could finally get some peace to think or perhaps not think about what to do next. The house was usually quiet on weekends. Alan always went fishing with his mates on Sundays and Moses usually tagged along; Brian would be pottering about the house, and her mum would be somewhere about with Sally and Zeph, so she was usually left to her own devices.

No such luck.

“Bloody hell, wonders will never cease!” exclaims Sally, grinning at her idiotically when she walks into the kitchen, nearly giving her a heart attack.

“Jesus Christ!” she puts a hand to her chest, feeling her heart beating rapidly.

“Sorry, love, I thought you were a mirage, what with it being before noon on a weekend!” she continues, annoyingly cheery in that horrible parental sarcasm her own mum has down pat.

Dragging her feet over the freezing terracotta tiles, she attempts to calm herself, willing her heart to slow as she rubs the back of her head, now throbbing more than the front of it thanks to the collision with the furniture. She thinks about telling her to fuck off and mind her own bastard business – that kind of retort would be usual, even to Sally, but Zeph’s in her lap, rattle in hand, shaking it wildly, his little face alight.

She feels tears welling up at the sight, though they aren’t happy ones.

The last thing she wants is more upset, she opts for a death glare and a huff instead. Raking an unsteady hand through her hair, she reaches into the cupboard behind her, for some painkillers, tossing three into her mouth without thought for the dose, tipping her head back to swallow them down, cuddling the bottle needlessly.

“Rough night then?” Sally chuckles. “Maybe you should try an Alka-Seltzer instead, my love!”

Emily. That’s all she can think of, all she can see – snatches of things, Emily’s hands, Emily’s mouth. It’s all on the tip of her tongue, threatening to fall out of her mouth at any second.

Sally’s little outburst is almost enough to make her go back upstairs and hole herself in the bathroom while it was free, but even then, she’d have to come out, because other people who need to use it, which would then of course involve twenty sodding questions in return – none of which she’s remotely capable of answering. She continues to ignore her, turns, practically throws the tablets back on the shelf, slamming the cupboard door so hard, the glass rattles in the frame; shocked when she sees her reflection – wondering who the fuck that deathly pale, bleary-eyed girl is looking back at her.

“Oh Naomi, you look terrible!”

Somehow, Sally’s soft motherly tone and open-mouthed concern is worse than the excessive joviality. It means something’s properly wrong, because people can see and it’s not all in her head. In fact, it feels like she has ‘I shagged Emily Fitch’ tattooed on it for all to see.

Under the normal course of events, she’d laugh, because really, it’s funny. No it’s not, it’s fucking pathetic, it’s tragic … and she’s going to cry, and she …

Don’t you dare.

She remains frozen to the spot, looking between Sally and Zeph. He looks back at her like he knows something, it’s disconcerting how he looks so innocent and wise at once. She shakes it off, reminding herself that he’s just a baby and he can’t possibly know what’s happened. Emily’s just a nice face and a nice voice – a different, new, nice voice and nice face, granted, but she’s just someone else in the mix for him. Fuck, she doesn’t even know what it all means and she’s months from being seventeen. When his little hand reaches for hers, she shirks it, and immediately feels guilty for doing so.

“Naomi?!” Sally turns to her, puzzled.

Before she can say anything else, no, _ask_ anything else, she squeezes between Sally’s chair and the washing machine, fleeing into the comparative safety of the garden for a long overdue smoke.

***

Kicking at the tiny stones on the patio with her bare feet, she slumps down in the deckchair by the potting shed, hugging her knees, pulling the cardigan down over them.

It’s only now that she can breathe.

Stuffing her hands into the pockets of her cardigan, she praises herself for having the mental fortitude to put an extra packet of Marlboros in the pocket – the one without a hole, thankfully – for times of need. This most certainly qualified. Reaching into the pack, she finds they’re either crumpled, bent or both, some are so bad she couldn’t even smoke them. She picks the best of the bunch, and takes one out, no two, tucking the other behind her ear for later, and reaches across for the lighter that’s always on the windowsill – Alan’s, black, with a picture of a skull on it that’s peeling. It takes a few frenzied clicks to get it going, and she’s never been more relieved when it lights, cupping her hand around the flame to shield it from the breeze, taking a long, hard, initial drag in hope it’ll calm her down, that somehow, by the time it’s down to the filter, she’ll have figured out what to do.

She tilts her head toward the sky, seeing it’s almost entirely free of clouds, apart from those thin ones that look like airplane vapour trails sometimes, feeling herself relax for the first time since she woke up. It’s sunny but still crisp; actually it’s fucking freezing and under the normal course of events she’d have gone straight back inside, but cold is the least of her problems. It’s not entirely the peaceful solitude she was looking for, what with the chorus of bloody lawn mowers, birds, and sirens off in the distance – speeding to emergencies that aren’t hers.

Nowhere would be quiet enough.

Maybe it’s curiosity that makes her do it, or she’s just a glutton for punishment, but on her third drag, she glances up at her bedroom window, half expecting to see Emily stood there, looking down at her in floods of tears. It hurts when she’s not there, when it’s just her drawn curtains.

It should look different, given what’s happened, but it doesn’t.

She’s not the only one watching. Now, Moses and Alan are in the kitchen too, and they’re glancing over at her every two seconds, looking very grave indeed. Sally’s watching too, she knows it. She can feel their eyes on her, judgemental, fearful. They all knew. Soon, she’d be out of places to hide. Right now, college, even Freddie’s shithole shed or Cook’s pokey little room in Halls were preferable to this. For a moment or two, she seriously debates jumping over the back fence and legging it down to the harbour.

Fuck sake, Campbell.

It’s futile. No matter where she chose to spirit herself away to, the result would be the same. She’d have to come home and face them eventually, Mum, Brian, Moses, Alan, Sally, Imogen, Emily, everyone. Emily was the worst. Emily meant the most. By then, they’d definitely know that something massive had happened in her life – well, let’s face it, at certain points they’d have to be fucking deaf not to have heard – and she hates that it feels so … sordid, public, and common. College would be worse, it’d be round within seconds and Katie would be in her face, warning her off and beating her down like last time. She can see the face Katie’s going to make – disgust, it was always disgust – hear the words she’s going to say; going to scream. How she’d be on the outside again, and she’d have to watch. She’d have to watch Emily suffer all over again.

It was all such a fucking mess.

It’s not Katie that scares her, not really, not anymore. She could stand that, to a degree, she’d been there before, but what she couldn’t stand, what was the fact that before, it was just a kiss, a simple, sweet kiss. Sure, it was confusing being kissed by a girl, unsure whether she liked it or didn’t, and it hurt to endure all she did at Katie’s hand; to lose Emily like that, but it was nothing compared to this. Whenever she was kissed again, usually by half-cut, slobbering, spotty teenage boys – like Danny fucking Seaborne – she’d think of Emily, her big brown eyes, her soft lips and sugary tasting lip-gloss and it’d make things about twenty thousand times better.

That was the problem. That was what sent her reeling from her bed, her room.

Emily was always the yardstick for kissing, but now she was the yardstick for something entirely different. Now it wasn’t just a kiss. Now it was hour-after-hour of what she knows is mind-blowingly good sex – even she knows it shouldn’t be _that_ good. It’s supposed to be awkward and terrible. Of course, now, in the garden, alone, reflecting on it, full of regret for it – that’s not the right word, but she’s finding herself increasingly lacking in vocabulary in relation to Emily – it _does_ feel awkward and terrible, but those feelings have fuck all to do with Emily and everything to do with herself.

It hits her full force then; the reality of it. Tears prick her eyes, stinging. She fights with herself not to cry.

Emily Fitch had taken her virginity, and it was nothing like she’d imagined it would be. Whenever she did, it’d always been quick, rough and careless, it’s how other people – sloppy, greedy, selfish people – boys, men, had treated her in the past. They’d be angry when she’d push them away, never quite able to let herself go, to let that final guard drop. It’d be in a car, against a wall, in an alley, in some stranger’s bedroom at some random house party or in the toilet of a club. Never, ever, did she imagine it would be in her room with another girl. Never was it soft, sensual or passionate. Never would she have looked into their eyes and know they loved her, were in love with her. Never did she think it would be sweet, shy, beautiful Emily Fitch who did all those things. Who made her feel all these things. Want all these things.

She could blame the first time on the drink and the spliff. The second time wasn’t so easy to ignore or explain.

***

“Take her some tea, love.”

Her heart’s in her throat and whips her head round toward the noise. Out of nowhere, there’s her mum, bold as, with mug of hot tea in her hand, emblazoned with a CND. She jumps out of her skin.

“What?!”

Jesus Christ! Everybody _did_ know.

“Tea,” her mum repeats, in that coaxing voice that winds her up because she knows it’s her mum’s special calm tone, reserved for emergencies – like when protests go to shit and people start screaming or they’ve gotten arrested and she’s trying to sweet-talk the copper into letting them off. “It might be nice,” she adds, looking at her warily.

“Why the fuck do you have to sneak up on people?!” she snaps, wiping her face free of tears hastily and chucking the nub of her cigarette off to the side, not looking where it goes. She attempts to light the second one with even shakier hands. When the lighter won’t spark, she throws it and the dishevelled cigarette onto the patio in a fit of frustration.

“You can’t stay out here, you’ll freeze darling.”

“I’m fine, everything’s fine, just … just _fuck off!_ ” she explodes, hearing the power go out of her voice, at the precise moment she wants to be able to scream at the top of her lungs.

For as long as she could remember, she’s never been able to shout. Whenever she was upset, her voice just went higher, then it would break entirely, turning her mute. Not entirely forceful. That’s exactly what it does now. Betraying her, like always. She screws her eyes closed, wishing that when she opens them, both her mum and Emily will be gone, and everything that’s happened will have gone too; unsaid, undone.

“We’ll talk about it later, sweetheart,” her mum carries on oblivious, hands her the cup, and gives her a little kiss atop the head before turning back to the house.

“Talk about what?” she asks, still reeling from this impromptu display of motherly affection.

Her mum turns, gives her a long look, “Tea’s getting cold, best not leave it too long, eh?”

She says nothing in reply, knowing full well that her mum’s not really talking about tea anymore. She finds herself staring down at the cup, looking at the collection of bubbles on the surface, watching each one slowly pop, seeing if the answer she’s searching for – whatever the fuck she’s asking, because she doesn’t know _that_ either – will suddenly emerge, like when you shake a Magic 8-ball and wait for the result to show.

The patio door slams loudly and she jumps, spilling some of the tea in the process, exhaling a “fuck” when it some of it hits her foot, burning as it does so.

Her mum was right, for once. She couldn’t just abandon her, she couldn’t abandon her _because_ it wasn’t some random person, it was Emily, sweet, lovely Emily who worshipped the fucking ground she walked on – God knows why, she was nothing but a bitch most of the time, rude, antagonistic and stubborn to a ridiculous degree. This was her fault. She’d pushed and pushed Emily until she’d broken. It wasn’t like she didn’t know Emily had feelings for her, she’d have to be fucking blind not to. The attention was nice. It felt good, sometimes – OK, a lot of the time.

That was another kind of guilt, another kind of weight to carry.

Jesus Ems …

The thousand or so thoughts she has in her considerably more sober mind just crowd her, threatening to overwhelm her entirely until she pushes them away, remembering the girl – the completely wonderful, amazing girl – upstairs in her bed. Sorry isn’t good enough for Emily. What she’s done to her deserves more that than, not that she knows what that ‘more’ is at the moment. Maybe she’d never know at all. There was something she could be certain of, it was unlikely that knowledge would come to her in the form of divine intervention between the kitchen and her bedroom, but she had to at least try. Emily was always the one to try, always the persistent one. She had to be the one to step up, to take on that role, for Emily’s sake. For her own sake. For the both of them.

There is, as they say, a first time for everything.

She takes a deep breath, progressing back slowly across the grass, careful not to spill any more of the tea. Of course, when she enters the kitchen, they all go quiet, and she feels like she’s walked in on something she shouldn’t have. This time, Moses leans back on his chair and holds open the patio door to stop it from smacking her one in the face on the way in. This time, she doesn’t have to struggle to get past Sally either, since she hastily pulls her chair in. They either look away, down at the table or directly at her, like she’s some fucking delicate invalid they feel sorry for. It’s all so fucking bizarre that she doesn’t even have it in her to react to it, beyond a frown and a sideways glance at her mum, who gives away nothing – what the fuck was that about? She’s probably fucking told them all, well, told them something because only other time she’s looked so sombre is when they decided to leave Reg’s commune and come down to Bristol with Moses in his clapped-out Cortina.

Of course that’s what she relates it to, she thinks, smiling wryly when she goes out into the hall, leaving them all behind, heading toward the stairs, walking up slowly, eyeing the tea with every step like her life depended on it’s safe passage – maybe it did. Bristol was when everything changed. Bristol was where they came to settle, where they became a family – though its members change every fucking day, it seems – where she got put into a proper school instead of being taught by mum’s mad feminist mates and actually began to make friends or rather, attempted to make friends. It wasn’t their first choice, mum’s told her as much before, Moses wanted to go down to the coast, but they never made it. Now she can’t help thinking it might have been a good thing. It brought her to Emily. Whatever happens, it brought them together and there had to be some good in that. So, she’s still confused as fuck, and her body’s practically resisting her inclination to go toward Emily instead of away, but no one makes her feel like Emily does, ever, and that had to count for something, that has to mean something.

***

“Naomi?”

She sighs. She’d know that clipped, smug accent anywhere. Imogen. She looks across the landing, seeing her bedroom door open. She’s sitting at her desk already, notes and textbooks piled high. Fucking swot, even she’s not that bad.

Oh she can fuck right off.

“Yes?” she answers, through gritted teeth. She’s in no mood for a lecture.

“If that’s for your …erm… friend,” Imogen motions to the tea, regarding her in her patented cool, contemptuous way, like she’s a lesser being for being born later.

Grudgingly, she moves closer, keeping well clear of the threshold. There was no need to be in the same room if she didn’t have to be.

“Look, is there a point to this?”

“Oh, erm, I really don’t know how to put it,” Imogen places her pen down and pushes her chair out, turning to face her.

Instinctively, she steps back, “As much as I treasure these little exchanges Imogen –”

Imogen holds up a hand, cutting her off. She purses her lips closed and her jaw clenches in frustration. Fucking superior bitch.

“I’m afraid she’s gone.”

Her heart sinks. She stumbles back into the doorframe.

“What?”

“She looked quite upset, I think she was crying,” Imogen looks away then, seeming genuinely sorry.

That pity makes it worse, makes her more afraid, angrier; immediately wanting take it out on Imogen, just because she’s there.

“Why didn’t you say something, why didn’t you come and get me?”

Imogen just looks at her, and it’s answer enough.

“Fuck you!” she yells, slamming Imogen’s door behind her.

She turns on her heels, padding quickly down toward her room, heart racing, mind racing, hating the image she has in her head of Emily running out of the house in tears while she was in the garden, oblivious, attempting to smoke her way to an early grave because she was too fucking confused and fucking pathetic – yes, that’s what she is, fucking pathetic, just to run, just to leave her. She’s the weak one, she’s the selfish one.

When she makes it to the door, she’s afraid to open it. Part of her hopes that Imogen’s some sort of lying fucking sociopath and Emily will be there, still sleeping, blissfully unaware of what’s gone on, and she’ll give her the tea, wake her up, and they’ll sit and talk before they have breakfast, and it’ll be terribly civilised. There’s another part though, that’s much, much bigger, which knows all that’s just crap, that Imogen’s right – because she’s _always_ fucking right – that the room will be empty, and Emily will have gone. Letting out a long breath, she reaches for the handle, dreading what she’ll find. Instead of flinging it open and flying in, she remains calm, barely turning the handle, pushing lightly on the door. It opens slowly, with a loud creak.

The room’s empty.

The mug falls from her hand, and she watches it go in divorced slow-motion, tea spilling out everywhere onto the garish patterned red carpet when it lands with a dull thud. Leaving it there, she closes the door behind her, falling against it. It’s not just empty, it’s been tidied. The bed’s made, the records are stacked – the pieces of the broken ones are on the desk, laid neatly, expectant, like they’ll be fixed.

All of Emily’s things are gone too. It’s like she’s been erased, like she never existed. She crosses to the bed, seeing a folded note placed write in the centre. When her hand reaches the side of the bed Emily’s been lying on, it’s still warm. She’s missed her by minutes.

She swallows hard, fighting back the urge to cry.

Turning her attention to the paper, she sees her name’s written on it in Emily’s neat hand, underlined. She reaches for it cautiously, thinking it’ll be a note of some kind, warning her off, expressing anger, showing regret. It’s none of those things. There, rendered perfectly, is her, in the pose that Emily worked so hard to get. She’s captured her completely. A hand immediately flies to her mouth, clamping over it in shock. She sinks to the floor, clutching the drawing tightly, overcome when she reads Emily’s words underneath: _This is how I see you._

Simple. Telling. Clear and concise. It feels like an epitaph.

She doesn’t stop the tears anyone, she doesn’t know how. She hunches over, the drawing pressed to her chest, sobbing uncontrollably, tears streaming down her face. Now, she hurts. Now, this is pain. Now, she knows she’s made a mistake. A mistake she can never undo.

She’s pushed Emily away one too many times.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Take my heart/want you to break it.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For notes see [Chapter One](http://archiveofourown.org/works/734298/chapters/1365149).

***

_“Take my heart/want you to break it.”_

***

She hasn’t talked to her for days. Eleven, to be exact – though it feels much longer that that – She’s counted. Not one call, not one text. Nothing. But it works both ways and Naomi knows that. Even so, she feels guilty about it, because she’s always been the one to make peace and clear the air. It’d be the right thing to do; the thing that everyone expects. When she and Katie argue, she’s the first to back down. When she and Naomi have a misunderstanding – and there’s been a lot of those – she’s the first to apologise, patient and sympathetic. She’s kept trying with Naomi even when everything in her was telling her to give up and move on, but she’s never been able to. Not anymore. Even in the worst of it, she’s always known that she’s never felt ready to cut her losses, but then, she’s never felt like this before either.

Naomi’s worn her down, worn her out.

Tired, that’s word that comes to her now when the thinks of Naomi, not beautiful, funny, smart or amazing; tired. She’s tired of pretending nothing’s happened. Tired of hiding; tired of doing all the running, but most of all, she’s so incredibly tired of feeling guilty for feeling at all. That was the hardest thing. If Naomi was scared – OK, so that can’t be counted as an _if_ , her fear is obvious – and if she’d left because of that, well, it’s understandable, because _she_ was still scared by what she felt and how deeply too, even if when compared to Naomi she was ‘sure’ of herself. They had sex twice. Twice – she still can’t quite get her head around that – and the second time, no one was drunk.

Maybe that’s what Naomi’s afraid of?

Natural, they say, fight or flight, but it goes deeper than that for the both of them. Once a lie’s told and retold, it gets harder to tell the truth and easier to keep on with the lying. Acting like nothing happened, well, it was just another lie, but it was getting harder to maintain.

What she couldn’t get at the time, and what she still can’t quite shake now, is the look in Naomi’s eyes that night; a look that said she wanted this, she wanted in, and it wasn’t a mistake to her at all. Naomi was the one who begged her to stay and kissed her within an inch of her life. That was her second mistake, she reasons, letting herself be swayed by those magnetic eyes; that perfect, warm, peerless skin, lips that just begged to be kissed. It made her fall all over again. If she’d ever landed, which, she’s never really sure she has. Her first mistake was giving in to her feelings for Naomi at all; letting herself peer over the ledge, teeter, and then dive, headlong into oblivion, into love. She’s been in freefall ever since, dropping through atmospheres at breakneck speed, with nothing to slow her down.

Until now.

***

Given their ‘history’ as people like to call it, she should’ve, surely, been better equipped to deal with, and less disappointed about, what Naomi’s done. After all, she’s been out of her life longer than she’s been in it. In a way, the completely horrible, desolate, aching feeling that accompanies this ... _lack_ of Naomi, it’s almost like normal, it’s the way she’s spent a third of her life. She knows it shouldn’t hurt still, but it does. It’s not even the emotional hurt, she’s done that, felt that; is feeling that. No, this is a very real pain, an ache, so concrete that feels like it’ll never fade. Day eleven is turning out to be no easier to survive than day one. As it’s gone on, things have all blurred into a very hazy mess. One big trail of destruction. Yes, responsible girls, good girls like her have the capacity to destroy too.

After the first few days of torture, she stopped hiding herself away and said yes whenever the others asked her to come out with them. For once, she kept up with Katie in the drinking stakes. She seemed almost impressed at first, but it didn’t last. Mostly because she didn’t like the role reversal, suddenly having to be responsible and look after her, because she wanted, no, needed to let go. So, it’s been Katie who’s had to pull her off random people she’s ended up dancing with; hold her up when she’s drunk too much; get her home in one piece. It feels better. It numbs it all and makes her forget. Makes her forget the sound of Naomi’s voice, the feel of her skin and the way she looks in those hours before the rest of the world is awake. Best of all, it makes Naomi disappear, so she’s free of it, finally able to breathe and unable to think.

Naomi doesn’t have the monopoly on being a fuck up. On top of everything else, she has the hangover from hell to prove it; remnants of last night’s impromptu party at Effy’s. It’s all getting too much. The weight’s getting too heavy to carry, she’ll crack soon. She’ll shatter. It’ll be spectacular.

***

Last night, she’d decided, during her third drink, that she was ready to come into college with her head held high and show Naomi that once and for all, she was finished. There’d be no more of her shit excuses and her game playing. She’d take a leaf from her sister’s book, and show Naomi what she’s missing by forcing herself to make an effort and look nice, as one big final fuck you; to prove to the world (and herself) that she didn’t want her, she didn’t need her. She didn’t love her.

This morning, many, many drinks later, when she woke up in an empty house – after Katie phoned her so many times she couldn’t ignore the ringing anymore – co-ordinating shoes and lipgloss was the furthest thing from her mind. Just keeping her eyes open and not chucking up was difficult enough. Instead, she’s ended up doing what she always does: made herself anonymous, so she blends in, like wallpaper or furniture. It’s nice to disappear. In the end, she’d put on her favourite outfit: check shirt and cord skirt. Weirdly, just putting them on and buttoning herself up, made her feel a million times better; made her feel safe and contained. This way, nothing can break out; there won’t be any chance of her betraying herself.

She’ll be steely and brave today. No more fucking tears.

***

College is the last place she wants to be, but she has to be here – Katie was the one that bunked off. Her first year exhibition’s tonight and she’s nowhere near ready. So she has no choice but to try had to keep it together, even though everything else was going to shit. Besides that, Katie was on her back, constantly cornering her and questioning. They’re all variations on the same theme: “what the fuck?” as in ‘what the fuck’s the matter?’ or ‘what the fuck was she doing?’ she’s got no answer, even now.

She liked it better when her sister was a selfish bitch who used her as a doormat. Her concern makes it worse. It makes it real. It means something really _has_ changed in her, and it’s not just her imagination.

Through it all, she’s tried to stay the same, play along, but it’s no good. Naomi just kept putting distance between them, so it was blatantly fucking obvious to anyone with a pair of eyes and a functioning brain that something was up and they were avoiding each other. Still, they haven’t brought it up. Not a word. They don’t need to. Even Katie’s left it alone, but she can tell that the question is right on the tip of her sister’s tongue, seconds from flying out at any given moment. As for everyone else, JJ, typically, has followed her round, looking concerned; Panda’s remained oblivious – it seems blissful, her existence, and she craves it, at times like this – and she’s feigned interest when she’s talked about Thomas; laughed at the right time when Cook’s told one of his overlong, shitty jokes. All the while, she’s been left wondering if Effy’s extra long sideways glances come from perspective of actual knowledge. She’s the most likely person for Naomi to confide in. She’s seen them in the canteen or outside under the trees where all the smokers go; just sitting together.

Everyone’s jealous of Effy for some reason or another. Now she can add herself to that list. She might even hate her a little bit, because she shares things with Naomi that she’s desperate to know.

***

Closing her eyes, she rests back against the wall across from the Art rooms, recovering after running full pelt from the bus stop all the way up to the second floor, with her stupid fucking portfolio smacking her in the legs the entire time. Good thing she’s a Fitch, and she ran cross-country in secondary school. She used to be able to run that kind of distance without even breaking a sweat. All that drinking and smoking have taken their toll and she had to stop twice. Once because she thought she might be sick (she wasn’t) and then another time because she was just fucking knackered and her lungs were practically screaming for air – and not in the good way.

Most of her classmates are already here, grouped together on the wall nearest the door, so they can get in first. She shuts out their chatter and their whispering, but still feels their eyes on her all the same. Usually, it’s because of something Katie’s said or done, but this time, she knows it’s her. Things get round, people see things. She doesn’t care. Maybe it’s part of the reason why she did it. Maybe it’s all of the reason; to push and push until she finally gets a reaction from Naomi, to force her hand into doing something; into showing something.

It hasn’t worked so far.

She’s really not in the right headspace for any of this, but she has to get on with it. That’s what she does. This is the one place she’s least likely to run into Naomi, physically at least. Emotionally, she never goes; she knows that she probably never will. Greg’s in there with some second year’s gathered round a painting someone’s done. It’s bold, headache-inducing in fact. Very Jackson Pollock, like someone or something exploded on the paper – a lot like she feels. He’s enthused, gesticulating wildly, and they’re all nodding along. She’s managed to get here on time – a fucking miracle she’s standing really – hopeful that he’ll take pity on her and get her portfolio review done, signed off and out the way so she doesn’t have to lug it round.

Loosening her grip on its handle, she lets it rest against her legs. It’s complete now, well almost. The fact she’s managed to do anything at all is bloody amazing, but it’s been a good distraction and a good excuse to avoid people. Thrown herself into it, as they say. Still, it’s not what she wanted to do, and she can already tell Greg won’t be happy. She’ll scrape a pass, maybe, if he’s in a good mood. Even the painting isn’t quite right, it’s missing something. The original sketch is fucking miles better; the best thing she’s ever done, she knows it. It’s still at Naomi’s, probably in the bin, though. Like everything else, this is all in Naomi’s hands. She’s got no chance of getting it back and its replacement is a poor substitute. It feels like a pale imitation.

Funny, since that’s what it was, that night, an imitation of love.

Everyone wants to see what’s inside. The second it got round Naomi was her model, people were suddenly incredibly curious, and when they found out it was a life drawing, it seemed to pique their interest even more. The second she looks at the canvas, it all comes back to her; every touch, every moan and every whisper. Though she’s been tempted, once or twice – because it’s like a fucking burden, this painting and she wants rid of it – to show them, but in the end, she knows she can’t do it. That’d be betraying Naomi somehow, and she’s done that once before.

In all honesty, she’s past the point of caring. She’s numb about the whole thing, like everything is beyond her control; like she’s living on autopilot. Perhaps Greg would let her get away with dumping paint all over the canvas and call it an ‘artistic statement.’ He likes people to be spontaneous and bold, and you can’t do better than that. Red, that’d be perfect, Emily thinks, and she’d upend the can all over it and destroy it right in front of her. Then she’d just walk away and leave her to explain.

It’s what she deserves.

***

The smarmy second years have gone, and they’ve barely been sat down five minutes before Greg’s off on one of his famous speeches, stood at the front of the class with all these swatches, throwing out questions about shape, space and how people create the right environment for art to be received. He’s pressing their need to get everything finished, framed up, focussing on the three pieces they were going to exhibit. Like always, he doesn’t stand still for long, and he’s going back and forth so much it’s making her dizzy, since he’s even more animated than normal.

“Think of this a real exhibition, not a bloody test run, OK? This is your opportunity to stand out, to show off who you are as an artist.”

She should be listening, and definitely needed to be taking notes because he’s telling them what feels like important things about later on; showing how matting and framing their work makes a difference, changes the ‘message’ of the painting. Usually, she laps this stuff up, she’s rapt, watching his every move, but today it’s just noise, and all she gets is snatches of phrases.

While he carries on talking, she begins to sketch idly in her book; not really paying attention to the shapes she’s making.

_“The pieces you choose are a reflection of you. Never censor yourself. Show me who you are.”_

Of course, she can’t help but think of Naomi then. She doesn’t know exactly when it happened; when Naomi became part of her. A part of who she’s becoming. The reason she’s changing at all.

Sometimes, just sometimes, she thinks she can still taste her – she searches for it on her tongue still, imagines – it’s the only thing that makes her realise it actually happened and it wasn’t just a dream. For those hours – all too brief, she knows that now – she got a glimpse of heaven, or some kind of heaven. It would never be enough.

Now, she was suffering the consequences, stuck in purgatory. That’s not the worst of it though; the worst comes in the form of what they don’t do and don’t say, like the times they catch each other looking; in lesson, across the green, the street or a club. It’s felt like Naomi’s suddenly everywhere and nowhere at the same time. Every girl was suddenly a blue-eyed platinum-haired blonde. Whenever and wherever their eyes meet, for the briefest of moments it’s like Naomi knows what she’s done. She knows just how Emily feels, how she’s broken her; that maybe she feels the same. Then, the spell is broken. The pull in her stomach goes, and it all disappears, back inside, but it’s never buried quite deep enough.

Still, there is one certainty in all this: the lack of contact is killing her.

***

She can’t focus, can’t stop churning things over in the hope that something in her head will suddenly click, and she’ll understand. When it does, she’ll go running to Naomi and tell her what she’s learned and Naomi will throw her arms around her, say sorry a thousand times into her hair, and they’d kiss; really kiss, like in those sentimental romantic comedies that Katie loves, where everyone’s perfect and loves the other person back and doesn’t fuck them up and break their heart. It’s just bollocks, a construct that has no basis in truth. Love like that doesn’t exist. She thought it did, but now she knows better. That, she can thank Naomi for.

_“Think about the flow of the pieces you choose, how they fit together as a narrative …”_

Fuck the narrative, Greg.

They’re meant to have all the working sketches, and notes for each piece in their folios, even the ones they aren’t showing later on. She started well enough, with everything ordered and neat, all very reflective and thorough, but now there’s almost nothing. Concentrating long enough to finish everything was going to be hard enough, let alone writing up all the wanky pretentious shit for the notes she’s yet to make. Greg should count himself lucky if he gets more than a blank page.

***

Now he’s reminding them about the trip to Tate Modern, waving the almost full sign-up sheet, and everyone else starts to chatter amongst themselves. With everything else that’s been going on, she’d forgotten all about it, and she’s still not quite sure whether to go or not, but in her current mood, decision making shouldn’t really be happening.

“I’ll reiterate that it is not a day to bunk off or piss about!” he rests on the edge of his desk and sips at his coffee. It’s in one of those shiny titanium cups.

There’s some groaning at that, especially from the boys in their class, but he shuts it down immediately with a well-timed glare. He’s got them well-trained. Fifty-fifty fear and respect, though in her case it feels more like sixty-forty.

“Firstly, it’s to inspire and energise you for our next module. Secondly, it’s an opportunity that none of you should waste,” he continues, sternly.

His eyes fall on her then, and she feels her stomach lurch, like he’s caught her out, and she blushes for no real reason. He looks at her for long seconds, searching her, but says nothing. The moment’s broken when Cassandra – a tall brunette who likes Escher and does very complex technical drawings – calls him over, asking a question about one of the pieces on her desk.

Her sketching comes to an abrupt halt.

When she glances down and sees what she’s drawn, she’s frustrated; no she’s fucking angry at herself. They’re body parts, which isn’t unusual, since eyes, mouths and hands are her favourite things to draw, but it’s _who_ they belong to that matters. There, without much thought on her part, is Naomi, in fragments: her full lips, perfectly shaded; eyes with just the right amount of light, pupil wide; and her hand, with long, elegant fingertips.

“Fuck sake,” she breathes, rolling her eyes skywards. She throws her pencil down, pushing the book away with it.

Next to her, Perry gives her a nudge, “Hey, what’s up with you?” his brows furrowing with concern. She’s seen that look a lot.

It’s the first time they’ve spoken today. All she could manage by way of hello was a nod, and he’d left her alone ever since. He’s her only real friend here, the rest of the class are quite snobbish and very serious. He introduced himself with a rather gentlemanly handshake in their first lesson and they’ve sat together in every one since, chatting away and doodling when they shouldn’t be. They talk most nights online, swapping music, but since Naomi, she’s barely been at home, so she’s neglected him a bit, and she’s wondering now if he’d be the perfect person to tell about all of this. He doesn’t know Naomi or any of her group for that matter, since this is the only lesson they share, and even if he did, he doesn’t look the type to judge.

“Nothing,” she replies, shaking her head and smiling weakly at him.

“Bollocks,” he shoots back.

Putting his drawing to one side, he shuffles his chair closer. She leans over a bit, and sees it’s a caricature of Greg. They usually make her laugh, because they’re so scarily fucking accurate, but this time she doesn’t even smile.

“Just a rough night,” she shrugs. It isn’t exactly a lie.

At this, the girls in front of them, Sadie (jet black hair, very emo, likes Frank Miller) and Alison (sandy blonde, likes Picasso and abstracts) turn round, interest piqued. There’s gossip about her and Perry, of course, that’s the way college is, but it doesn’t usually bother her, there’s nothing in it, they don’t see each other that way. OK, so he’s good-looking and it’d solve a fuckload of problems – it’s crossed her mind more frequently of late – but it’s like thinking of her and JJ as anything more than friends, it freaks her out. JJ, she knows, already wants more than Perry, and that definitely involves not being her chief portfolio carrier, but she’s not going there. Perry could handle playing the dutiful boyfriend, she reckons, since he doesn’t mind when she bends the truth if mum pops in and reads over her shoulder when they’re chatting, but JJ, no fucking chance.

Katie, of course, latched onto the fact that Perry is very different from JJ, and for a week at the start of term, she wouldn’t shut up about him. Whenever he comes up in conversation now, it’s always because she doesn’t think a girl can _just_ be friends with a boy. Of course, it doesn’t occur to her that it’s entirely possible that you can’t _just_ be friends with a girl either.

“Seems like a rough week to me …” he tails off when Greg looks over, with one of Sadie’s sketches in his hand.

She’s been strong, really, when she considers how easy it would’ve been to break down at any given point and tell someone everything. There’s been no real time for her to wallow in it though, which is sort of a blessing, but today, it feels a lot like a curse too. The second she got in the door from Naomi’s, she was set upon by her mum, panicked about Katie. The fact that she looked like she’d been dragged through a hedge backwards didn’t even merit a mention – even James gave her a sideways glance. The disaster that had been brewing before she left had gone nuclear, and Danny had shown himself to be the selfish, useless prick she’d always thought he was. He’d been cheating on Katie, and had the cheek to dump her first. So she spent the weekend consoling her. All the while, she wanted to tell her about Naomi, how she loved her; how she’d broken her heart after all the years of waiting and being careful, but she could never muster the courage; never find the gap in their conversation. When she ended up crying too, Katie didn’t even question it.

Maybe she thought it was twin empathy?

***

“Hey, these are good!” Perry whispers.

Pulled from her thoughts, she replies with a distracted, “What?”

“The sketches,” he clarifies, pointing to the page.

His tapping makes her turn, frowning at him in confusion. She’s thrown entirely when she sees her sketchbook in his hands and Naomi staring back at her.

Her face is all she’s drawn for weeks. All she’s dreamt of.

Shit.

She panics immediately, wondering how many pages he’s looked through. If he’s read her little scraps of thoughts or seen the silly little love hearts adorned on the corners.

“It’s nothing, just … nothing,” she snaps, regretting it when Perry recoils a little. “Just leave it alone, please?” she asks and it _is_ a plea.

Thinking about how she might, _maybe_ , possibly be ready to talk about this with someone and actually _doing_ it are very different. She’d wanted to talk about this with Naomi, she’d expected to even, but all along, nothing’s been what she’s expected.

“These aren’t meant to be shared,” she adds, quietly, and takes the book back from him.

“Alright,” he nods firmly, holding his hand up. “Sorry, I was just curious,” he falls silent, looking a little hurt, before turning his attention back to measuring the frame for his biggest painting.

“Sorry, it’s just …” she tries and fails to think of how the sentence should end.

“It’s OK,” he smiles, a gentle, kind smile.

Like she knew he would, he glances back at her a few seconds later, opens his mouth to speak but then doesn’t. It’s a small reprieve, and she knows he’s not finished, that her answer is nowhere near good enough. She’s a terrible fucking liar.

Everyone _but_ Naomi seems to be concerned with her welfare.

***

Just over two hours later, she’s somehow managed to get through the lesson. Having left Perry behind in the Computer Suite, she’s spinning out time in the girls toilets on the top floor, looking at the graffiti on the tiles above the sink, trying to find the one Katie wrote in bright red lipstick on the first day, but it’s gone. They’re crap of course; either pisstaking or just complete bollocks: CAZ WOZ ‘ERE; SAMMY LUVS JASON; KT VICKERS IZ A SLAG; 4 FREE FEELZ CALL 0798 … Amongst them, there’s always the odd one that stands out to her, that make her feel different things: LUCY IS A LEZZER; DEBS IZ A TWAT LOVER; STACEY H DIVES MUFF, because they look such sordid, nasty little phrases and that’s not what she associates with her and Naomi. Those ten or so words don’t even begin to describe it, what it was like kissing her, touching her and being held by her, lying in her bed at some stupid hour of the morning. But, these are just stupid girls, writing stupider things that have nothing to do with love or romance. For these girls, it’s something to be ashamed of. No one would have the balls to put two girls’ names the either side of a heart and leave it there.

If anyone knew the truth of what happened between them she’d be up there, writ large by one of the Beauty girls, in bright pink pen. The mere thought of it terrifies her. She wishes she were ballsy and brave, wishes she didn’t care so much, so she’d march up there and write … _whatever_ in permanent marker in the biggest letters she can physically write, because then it might make her feel better.

It’s impossible to feel any fucking worse.

She turns back to the sink and busies herself with washing her hands. It comes as a shock when she looks at herself in the mirror, met with a tired, pale girl who has the world’s biggest dark circles under her eyes. She could be half dead or undead, it’s debatable. Either way, she looks like shit, and she has to sort it out, fast. It’d be just her luck to run into Naomi now, when she looked a complete wreck.

***

There’s not long left until English now. Her plan worked well. The Common Room was a minefield at the best of times, but she’s in no mood for interrogation from Katie or anyone else of that matter, so she had to resort to her old middle school trick of hiding in the toilets. Back then, she was hiding from bullies – her last resort when she didn’t have Katie to protect her – to stop them from nicking her dinner money or flushing her head down the toilet. But, Naomi isn’t a bully, so that somehow makes her charade worse.

Maybe she’s hiding from herself? Maybe it’s been that way all along?

Sometimes she’s glad of her shyness; it lets her be silent without raising suspicion. Some days, she can get away without talking at all, since everyone tends to think of her and Katie as one unit; her sister will be the one they’ll talk to. It infuriates her, of course, but now she’s come to rely on it, facilitated it even, what with her constant drifting and daydreaming.

She carries on down the corridor toward the classroom, readying herself for seeing Naomi again, planning how to get through the door and sit down unscathed. Hugging herself tightly, she weaves around the other students, smiling and nodding if any of the faces are familiar. It gets no easier. It’s still as awkward, it’s still as painful, but it’ll be the last time for today, and that’s something. There’s the real irony of course, that she used to count off the minutes until she’d see her next; and wait for the inevitable surge of butterflies in her stomach. Those seconds, those minutes, watching and waiting used to be worth the pain of longing. Now, she counts the minutes until she’s free of her for another day. It’s a victory, a marker of how well she’s coping, of her survival.

“How’s the head?”

She’s a little taken back, blinks a few times, before she registers Effy, sitting cross-legged on the floor, her copy of Hamlet open.

“Been better,” she replies, sliding down to sit next to her.

Effy looks none the worse for last night, if she hadn’t actually witnessed how much they’d all drunk, she’d have never believed it. How the fuck was she still standing? Effy, clearly, was a different breed; impervious to all. She can hardly remember anything. Not after the amount of vodka she consumed via Effy’s hand. Russian. Strong shit.

“Here,” Effy dips a hand into her jacket pocket. “Have a sip of this, might make you feel a little more … _human_ ,” she offers up a slim silver flask, twisting the cap off.

Her eyes widen and she holds up her hands, “Shit no, I don’t want anymore to drink!”

“It’s not. It’s special. My brother Tony’s recipe. Never fails,” Effy’s mouth quirks up in a half smile. “Trust me, you can’t look any worse.”

Reluctantly, she takes the flask and takes a tiny sip. Effy breathes very Naomi-like “fuck sake,” and tips the flask up, so it makes her drink more. It tastes vile, a cross between sea water and cough mixture.

“What the fuck is in that?” she coughs, pulling a face as she hands the offending drink back to Effy.

“Better you don’t know,” Effy smirks, slipping it out of sight.

“About last night…” she trails off, picking at the hem of her skirt. “What erm, did I do?”

This is fucking awkward. It’s usually her in Effy’s place, filling in the blanks for Katie, but after about eight last night, she can’t remember a sodding thing.

“It was, interesting," Effy states, ever cryptic and she makes a big show of folding the corner of her page over before closing the book and putting it to one side. “I learned a lot,” there’s a flicker of a smile on her face.

Now is not the time to take the piss, Stonem.

“Effy.”

“So can you remember Freddie pissing in my Dad’s ornamental pond?”

She shudders. “Unfortunately, yes.”

“What about JJ throwing up on Thomas’ trainers after Cook tried to make Jaegerbombs and appointed him chief tester?” Effy continues, clearly enjoying it.

She makes a face and nods in reply.

“How about when you ended up dancing with Cook and snogging his face off?” she tilts her head, eyebrows raised.

_What?!_

“Oh God,” she groans, burying her head in her hands.

As soon as it leaves Effy’s mouth, it all comes back to her. She swallows hard, trying her best to repress the memory of it, wishing she’d never asked. Anyway, she blames the pills that she’s been popping like Smarties with him when they’ve been out, dancing, off their faces in dingy clubs, and last night at Effy’s. It was the contact she craved, drove her to it; even if it was from the wrong person. It didn’t matter that it was Cook’s tongue in her mouth; that the kisses were filthy and rough; that he was grinding against her with his hands all over her, because when the music was going and her eyes were closed, _then_ he was Naomi. Good fortune, that they’re almost the same height.

What a fucking mess.

He’d caught her at a weak moment; make that a _very_ weak moment. Sure, she was miserable and lonely, but how did she get so desperate? The only thing that makes her feel less shit about the whole thing? She wasn’t really in her right mind – can you be in the wrong mind? Maybe.

For those minutes, everything felt something like normal. She was wanted, she didn’t hurt, and she wasn’t alone.

It’s fucking pathetic, what Naomi turns her into, drives her to. Part of her expected it, the same part that expected to wake up and find Naomi gone, because that’s what Naomi does when she’s afraid, it’s what she did too, leaving her to fend off Katie at the party all those years ago. That’s karma for you. She supposes that means they’re even now. Just because she expected it, doesn’t mean it softness the blow; doesn’t take away the disappointment or the strange feeling of being betrayed; and doesn’t lessen the emptiness or the disconnection she feels from her own life, because it never feels like she’s in control of it.

No, _that’s_ the pathetic thing, that Naomi can do this; can treat her like shit, like she’s worthless, like it was nothing, like it meant nothing, and no matter how she fights it, i >only</i>l Naomi could do this to her and still be the one she adores. If she was less of a ridiculous, dreamy romantic, she’d write it off as an exceptionally good night slash morning of shagging and be done. But no, she had to make it more; she had to fall in love.

“There was nothing else though,” Effy holds her gaze, attempting to reassure her.

“Well, apart from your sister’s rather colourful ranting,” Effy shakes her head. “Luckily, you eventually passed out, and missed the whole thing. Everyone else, and the rest of the street, we got to hear every word!” she adds, topping it off with an eye roll.

“Sorry,” she looks away, embarrassed.

“She thinks I’m leading you astray,” Effy smiles again at this, seemingly proud, giving Emily a nudge in the side.

“Oh, she can think what she wants,” she sighs. “I don’t care,” she finishes, resting her head back against the wall.

“That’s a bold statement,” Effy comments, sounding unconvinced.

Wow, everyone really _does_ think she’s a doormat.

If Katie thinks she’s got another excuse to start on her today, she can fuck off. She’s been giving their mum a run for her money in the interrogation stakes lately. Ever since she starting going out with Freddie – her broken heart was miraculously mended last Tuesday – it’s like some impostor Katie has beamed down from outer space and her curfew-breaking, drink-mixing party girl of a sister has been replaced with a smug, self-righteous bitch of a clone. Said clone seems to have conveniently fucking forgotten the fifteen million times she’s held her hair back in skanky nightclub toilets night after night.

“So, you danced a lot, drunk a lot, fucked up a bit, drunk some more and then said some random shit,” Effy continues, with a shrug. “It’s a party. That’s the point, isn’t it?”

It sounds so easy, so normal, when Effy says it like that, and it almost excuses it. Almost. She wonders what it must be like to live without the constant fear of needing to do the right thing. To live without limits.

“What sort of stuff?” she asks, cautiously, barely glancing up.

“About swans and penguins mating for life. Apparently, you’re in need of your own swan.”

_Fucking hell_

“Oh,” is all she can muster, feeling her face burning.

She remembers, vaguely, the two of them, sat on the Stonems living room floor on Panda’s twister mat, passing the bottle back and forth, smoking a spliff and listening to her brother Tony’s random records – bits of The Cure and Joy Division mostly. No Blondie though, she made sure of that. Effy sang along out of tune, making all these big hand gestures like an orchestra conductor.

“Please don’t tell Naomi,” she blurts out, before she realises.

Fuck. Fuck. _Fuck._

Effy looks at her, puzzled, and yet there’s a glimmer of something in her eyes too –  
that classic, all-knowing Stonem glint. “Emily, why would I want to tell Naomi about the mating patterns of birds? She’s a clever girl, I’m sure she knows.” Without another word, she stands up, brushing herself off as the others start to arrive.

Emily sits stock still, her mind lagging, because if Effy could work it out, it wouldn’t be long before anyone else would too. The mere thought that Katie will have – or has – put the pieces together makes her feel ill – and it’s got sod all to do with her hangover. The last thing she wanted for her and Naomi, no matter what they were to each other, was people to gossip about them.

Why did it even matter? Why did she even care? It’s painfully obvious to her now that Naomi doesn’t.

“It’s OK,” Effy says, pulling her up to standing before she leans over to whisper, “I won’t tell your swan.”

With that, Effy turns away and saunters off, going right to the front of the group congregating by the closed door. She trails after her, lining up with her against the wall, zoning out as Panda appears and they start to talk about their plans for the weekend. The weekend felt much too far away to be contemplating. One day at a time, one step at a time. Besides all that, she’s not quite sure what the fuck just happened, what it all means, and if Effy can be trusted not to tell the entire world or at least, just one girl in it.

***

“Right then you fuckers!” Kieran bellows, cutting through the swathe of students, carrying bunch of files, balancing them as he gets the keys out of his pocket.

“Nice beard, Josie,” Cook scoffs, and it gets a laugh.

“Dickhead,” Freddie smirks, shaking his head.

Katie cuddles up to him, playing with the buttons on his shirt. She hasn’t said a word to her yet. The glaring and the disapproval is more than enough. Somehow, that makes all this a little bit more real. A little bit more terrible.

Maybe she was right to stick with Effy after all; it seems that Katie won’t do anything while she’s there. Any other time, she would have marched up to her and given her the third degree before she could so much as fucking blink. Effy’s a bit like having her own personal force field. It’s only flaw being that it’d attract Naomi, rather than repel her like everyone else.

“Ah, you’re fucking funny, big man!” Kieran replies, shooting him a look. “Get the door, make yourself fucking useful!” he continues, struggling to balance everything he’s carrying.

“Right you are, chief!” Cook salutes, making a big show of opening the door, bowing with a grand sweep of his arm as they all start to stream in.

Out of sheer habit, she hangs back, waiting until last. She’s still looking up and down the corridor for the slightest sign of Naomi. Now she just feels fucking stupid, acutely aware of all the time she’s wasted.

“Ems?” Cook calls, loudly, and she flinches. He smiles at her, cocking his head toward the door, “Still recovering from last night then?” he chuckles.

She just smiles at him rather weakly in answer, knowing that she’s probably glowing with embarrassment. What could she possibly say? ‘Sorry for getting outrageously drunk and throwing myself at you?’ In his world, that’s normal behaviour. He’d probably just laugh at her anyway, he never takes anything seriously. In the end, she says nothing, and walks past into the classroom, passing the television that’s been set up on a little trolley. Thank God it wasn’t going to be a proper lesson.

“Good one though,” he adds, with a wink, purposefully brushing past her before he gets to his seat, right at the front with Freddie and JJ.

She makes a face, disgusted with herself that she let it happen.

Fucking idiot, of all the people to choose.

She brushes him off again, and heads toward the back of the class, hoping to get a seat next to Effy, make sure things are alright with them and swear her to secrecy, but as per fucking usual, Pandora’s beaten her to the punch. Effy glances up, and signals for her come over, but then there’s a pull on her arm. She’s about to protest, all ready to fire off an insult until she meets her sister’s gaze.

“Over here, with me,” Katie declares, in a low stern voice.

She opens her mouth to argue, but then she feels Katie’s nails digging into her wrist, telling her in no uncertain terms that there’s no room for argument. Then, she’s yanked unceremoniously into one of the remaining seats on the front row. She exhales, long and hard, trying her best not to be infuriated. When she glances back toward Effy and Panda, Effy just gives her a nod. She knows the drill. They all do. Katie’s doing her job, playing the big sister – that six minutes has always counted for more – keeping her in line and restoring social order; the order that sees Katie’s at the top of the food chain and has all the control. Now that her sister's mission to impress Effy was over and she had bagged a new boyfriend, Katie was back to controlling her life instead. Grudgingly, she settles down, and Cook gives her another little nod. There’s someone else who needs setting straight. If he thinks he’s going to get a repeat performance of what happened at Effy’s, well he’s got another fucking thing coming. JJ looks between them, and she watches the penny drop, as he looks away sadly, turning his attention to what Kieran’s writing on the board.

She’d been right all along, he did fancy her. Now she felt terrible, because she’d practically stomped all over his feelings without so much as a second thought. She’s no better than Naomi after all.

***

“Right then, shut it! No more fucking chat!” Kieran announces, dusting the chalk off his hands. “As your man Cook so rightly pointed out, I am _not_ Miss Long. She’s off sick today, so you lucky, lucky fucking people have got me for a lesson!”

There’s a bit of a cheer then, lead by Cook of course.

“And, you’ll be very fucking glad to know there will be no reading going on. Josie’s left this behind,” he pauses, lifting up a DVD of Hamlet for them to see. “I take it the record attendance today has bugger all to do with Shakespeare and everything to do with Kate fucking Winslet!”

“Kate Winslet’s tits, actually!” Cook corrects and everyone laughs.

“Prick,” Katie breathes

She can’t help but agree with her sister, rolling her eyes skyward. She wonders what Katie would say if she’d said something like that. Even if she had the courage, she’d never hear the fucking end of it, she knows that much. Cook was a lucky bastard, and she’s secretly envious. He can get away with anything; do whatever he wants and no one so much as blinks. It’s just Cook.

“Oh dear God,” Kieran sighs, dropping down into his seat, putting his feet up on the desk. “Before we start, copy that down,” he gestures towards the board, and there’s some rustling and groaning as people get out pens and papers.

She shifts in her chair, rummaging through her bag for her notebook, irritated by Katie’s constant nudging; a habit she’d formed when they were little girls and she wanted to get her attention. She’s sure that if she let it carry on, she’d have a permanent bruise between her ribs.

There’s a bit of groaning and chatter as people digest the question. _“Study the version of Hamlet presented by Kenneth Branagh, and discuss how closely it relates to Shakespeare’s original text.”_

Jesus Christ. Quite a leap from being taught Hamlet with the aide of sock puppet called Gerald. Until now, people have seen her as a bit of a soft touch, since she’s always seemed a bit ditzy and got flustered whenever Cook made some filthy comment, which happened a lot. Clearly Josie’s forgotten there are really only four people in this class who are actually capable of answering the question. One of them is her, one is JJ, the other Effy, and of course, Naomi. She’s far too clever to be here.

She can’t help but glance up at the clock then, seeing that not only is Naomi late, but she’s well past the five minutes grace they’re allowed to get from class to class. Effy and Pandora had made it over from Philosophy, but there was no sign of her.  
She shakes the worry off, forcing down the wave of dread that comes with it.

Stop. She doesn’t give a shit.

“Oh, and don’t you go thinking you lot can do bugger off, because I’m doing the register at the end of lesson! So, if you lovely little fuckers on EMA want your pocket money, then you better be here!” Kieran laughs.

There follows a load of “fucking hell’s,” tuts, sighs, and various other swear words, all muttered in Kieran’s direction, until he puts a finger to lips, shushing them all like they’re six.

JJ leaps up then, crosses the room and draws the blinds without being asked. Kieran gives him a nod in thanks and presses the remote, and the room go quiet. She thinks about trying to get his attention when he crosses back to sit down, but he doesn’t look at her once. It’s probably a good thing, every time she’s opened her mouth today; she’s made things twenty times worse.

***

They’re mostly quiet now, a bit of doodling and texting is going on. She’s one of the few people who’re still paying attention, even though it’s been going for less than fifteen minutes. She’s not concentrating fully, letting the words wash over her instead. It’s soothing. She’s always liked the vocabulary, the rhythm and the cadence. They make everything, even the most mundane things sound beautiful. Modern English sounds terribly plain, almost blunt by comparison.

All her highbrow thoughts come to a grinding halt a few moments later, when the door rattles loudly, and she glances away from the screen, distracted by the noise. Her eyes meet with a flustered Naomi, obviously trying to slip into class unnoticed, but failing spectacularly. Her stomach lurches, and her next breath catches in her lungs. And yet, she still can’t bring herself to look away.

Right on cue, Katie digs her in the ribs, “Fucking hell, the state of her,” she whispers, full of disdain.

A few other people pass comment, and she catches bits and pieces. That Naomi’s a freak, a weirdo, a bitch, and a loser. What the fuck did they know? No one knew Naomi, not really. Not even her, and yet, she can’t bring herself to be counted amongst them, because what they share – shared – was something they’ll never know, never see and never feel in their whole entire lives. They should feel jealous.

Kieran shushes Katie and everyone else, with a loud, clipped “Shush!” and he points toward the screen.

“Shut up,” she hisses back, though it’s somewhat redundant. It’s mostly for Katie, because, she won’t let go of her stupid shitty grudge, but maybe it’s for the rest of them too.

How quickly that desire to protect her comes. She hates herself for it. She crosses her arms in defence, forcing herself to remember waking in Naomi’s empty bed, and that sympathy quickly dissipates, replaced by anger and frustration.

“Whatever,” Katie tuts, turning her attention back to Freddie.

He puts his arm round her shoulders and whispers something. Katie visibly relaxes, whilst she remains tense, coiled tight like a spring. Her mind is racing, trying to think of ways to escape. Being in the same room with Naomi is too much already.

“Nice of you to join us, Naomi,” Kieran drawls.

“Sorry,” Naomi replies, quietly, crossing the room, dragging a hand through her hair, flipping it back.

She remembers doing that for her. The memory sets off an ache between her thighs, and she shifts in her seat, crossing her legs, wishing it away.

“Sit yourself down,” he gestures to a chair vaguely.

The only empty seat is next to her; a little bit of breathing space from Cook.

Oh fuck.

Impulsively, she shifts her chair to the left, closer to her sister’s. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Cook frown. On her other side, Katie shoots her a look she barely has time to read before it’s gone.

They’re starting to notice now, she’s sure of it.

Naomi opens her mouth to speak – to protest, she assumes – because they haven’t sat together in any class they’ve shared since … _that night_. She doesn’t know what to call it. It’s been tainted now, altered from something beautiful and life-changing in her head to something hideous and painful. An incident. Yes, that’s it, it’s turned into an incident; a dividing line in her life.

Now she’s afraid of her. Afraid of the closeness. Afraid that she’ll speak, but even more afraid that she won’t.

Suddenly, Naomi, her bright blue ‘Stop Wars’ t-shirt – it’s written in the Star Wars font, it used to make her smile – denim skirt and scuffed Vans are very close. She can’t breathe, because that tense, awkward, dread in the pit of her stomach is back – if it ever really left. Naomi looks exactly how she feels: confused, so fucking confused and fearful. Everyone seems to disappear as they look at each other for long seconds. Naomi’s eyes are searching her, pulling her in, and she can’t help but flick her gaze down, focussing on that perfect, beautiful mouth that she’d kissed and kissed until breathless. The urge to do that very thing, just to comfort her, is overwhelming.

They’re dancing round each other, just like before, and just like before, neither of them are brave enough to change it.

“Jesus Naomi, just sit the fuck down!” Kieran exclaims, irritated, returning to his marking.

It makes them both snap out of it, and Naomi blinks rapidly a few times, as if she’s just woken from a dream. She looks away too, back over at the screen, seeing Naomi sit down in her peripheral vision. Almost immediately Cook leans over and begins to whisper to Naomi, stealing away all the questions she’d usually ask: where she’s been and whether she was alright. She doesn’t concentrate hard enough to hear Naomi’s reply, partly because she doesn’t want to know, but mostly because she’s not sure she wants to hear the answer.

Since Naomi’s arrival, she’s completely disoriented. The actors on the screen are nothing now, just colour and shape. It’s lost all meaning to her beyond that, because what little focus she did have has disappeared entirely. All she can concentrate on is Naomi and her closeness. The light floral scent of her perfume fills her nostrils – she’s spent hours at fragrance counters, testing, waiting for the moment where she’ll find it and drift off, deep in bliss – makes her remember the last time she could smell it so clearly: nuzzling into Naomi’s neck as she slept, brushing against her soft, warm skin; never wanting to leave.

She shifts in her seat, looking over at Katie; quiet, content, resting her head on Freddie’s shoulder. He’s mouthing the odd word as Hamlet and Horatio talk and she smiles at it. She sighs, turning away, knowing that she and Naomi will never be like that. For all her dreaming, they’ll never be that open and comfortable. Ever. She’s not jealous anymore. Jealous was last week. Today, today is … she doesn’t know, and her head hurts from all the thinking. She can never just be.

Fucking hell, this is ridiculous.

Finally, she just lets herself relax, because really, if this is how she and Naomi have to be – not talking about it all, pretending it never happened – then she has to get fucking used to it. She’ll learn. She has to. Her hand drops down to her side, into the gap between her chair and Naomi’s, and their hands inadvertently brush together. Her breath hitches at the contact, head practically whipping off her shoulders. She expects Naomi to pull her hand away immediately, but she doesn’t. Instead, she glances over, and smiles, the corners of her mouth barely curving, and they slowly, secretly, begin to stroke each other’s fingertips, cloaked under the desk. Her tongue darts out, moistening her dry lips as their little game carries on. Neither of them otherwise acknowledges its happening. The only outward sign in Naomi is when she exhales a long, shuddering breath.

Even at this small touch, she’s lost.

They up the ante a little with each pass. Now, their fingers are almost intertwined. She’s missed the warm feeling that rushes her whenever they touch; and the rapid beating of her heart, pounding away in excitement rather than fear. Maybe it’s still fear in a way, because it’s a risk, a tease, and possibly the second most erotic moment in her life. The first happened eleven days ago.

“Get in!” Cook cheers and there’s a weak smattering of applause.

She freezes. Fucking hell, he’s seen them.

This time, Naomi’s hand _does_ move, jerking away from hers. The fear in her eyes is back and she looks away guiltily, shifting her body away.

“Nice,” Cook nods, and she follows his eyeline.

She breathes a sigh of relief, because it’s not them he’s interested in, it’s Kate fucking Winslet.

Fuck you, Cook.

Panic over, she reaches for Naomi’s hand again, but she’s left flailing at air. The moment, whatever it was, is gone, and the tiny step they’d taken back towards each other has been erased. She looks up at the ceiling, slumping down in her seat and crossing her arms, mirroring Naomi.

Do not fucking cry.

***

She’s staring intently at the screen now, her eyes trained on another blue-eyed blonde. The comparison is too much, and that’s even before she thinks of what love does to Ophelia. How love ruins her. She’s ruined things between them, like she knew she always would. They can never go back now; it’ll never be like it was before. Even then, the balance was precarious and all too delicate.

This was the end.

There’s a new feeling building in her chest now. It’s suffocating her. Crushing her. She can’t bear to be near her. As Ophelia and Laertes sit together, she realises something and it hits her full force, like a fucking truck: she’s lost her. She’s lost Naomi. She’s clung on for all this time with an unsteady grip and Naomi’s slipped away at the last moment. There’s nothing she can do. It’s been coming all along. Everything begins to blur then, and she feels tears welling in her eyes. She won’t do it in front of all of them, in front of Naomi. This wasn’t supposed to happen. She was meant to be ballsy, brave and not give a shit about any of it. She’s not supposed to want her or need her. Instead, she’s the stupid, weak little girl she’s always been; hankering for a fairytale romance that doesn’t exist.

She won’t make a scene. She’ll hold it all in, what’s happened between them and never speak of it again. It’ll be the thing she thinks of wistfully when she old: one weekend in the middle of October, when she finally got the one girl she’s ever loved to love her back. The passing years will dull the pain and make Naomi more beautiful, and she’ll never remember all that came after.

It’ll be fine. Eventually.

But it’s not fine. It’s not fine because, on screen, Ophelia keeps talking, and she knows what’s coming. She’s always thought it pretty, thought it desperately romantic, but now, it’s more than that; gone from being some eloquent yet dusty words writ long ago. Now, they mean something to her. She waits. Her body tenses, hearing the words in her head before they’re spoken aloud:

_“Tis in my memory, lock’d. And you yourself shall keep the key of it.”_

She bites down hard on her lip to try and contain it, to stop it all from spilling out of her, but it’s no good. Naomi feels something too, she knows it, when they lock eyes and Naomi opens her mouth, as if to speak, but doesn’t. Try as she might, she can’t hold it in anymore. A whimper escapes her, and she grabs her bag, rushing from the room with a hand clamped over her mouth.

The door slams loudly behind her, and she keeps on going, walking as fast as she  
can. She hears Naomi calling after her in a pained, shaky voice, but she doesn’t stop, she daren’t. Instead, she speeds up, almost flying through the double doors that lead to the stairs. She clings to the railing, taking great gulps of air. Crouching down, small, she lets her bag drop down to the floor. She wants it all to stop now, so she can curl up, foetal, and give in to it all: to finally display her broken heart to the world.

So, she does the only thing she can. The only thing she’s needed to do all this time. She lets herself cry, really cry, without thought for who might see and who might hear. They come quickly of course, steaming down her face before she so much as takes another breath. The sound echoes, loud and hollow around the empty stairwell. She knows they’ll carry. It feels like the world can hear her.

“Fuck you, Naomi!” she gets out, between sobs. There’s no strength in it.

***

The doors creak loudly, but she doesn’t turn around, keeping her eyes fixed on the stairs, trying to gather herself.

“Emily,” Naomi says, softly, and she feels a hand on her shoulder. “Emily, please look at me.”

Oh, the magic little word that started this entire fucking mess.

“Fuck off!” she snaps, shirking it, swiping her tears away with the back of her hand.

“Are you OK?”

Is she fucking serious?

She whips round, not quite believing her ears. “Am I OK? That’s the first thing you say to me in eleven days! What the fuck do you think?”

For someone so intelligent, Naomi can be incredibly fucking stupid.

“I’ve been so worried about you,” Naomi admits, stepping closer.

Instinctively she moves back, “What? When? Last night?” she replies, the questions rushing out of her in a barrage. Naomi flinches.

“Yes,” she glances away, looking at the floor, “I hated,” she takes a breath, “I hate seeing you like this.”

“What about the other ten days, Naomi? What about when you left me in your bed?”

“I just … I was …I didn’t,” Naomi stumbles over her words, voice breaking.

“Care?” she fires back. “It’s OK. I understand. Message received, loud and fucking clear!”

“No, no!” Naomi reaches for her hand, but she yanks it away.

“Don’t fucking touch me!” it comes out hard, clipped and very Katie. They sound so alike it’s almost frightening.

Naomi’s eyes widen.

She can almost see it written on her face; the shock, and the slightest flicker of pain, because clearly she was expecting the usual soft-spoken sweetheart Emily to come back at her. Well fuck that. Nice girls finish last and alone.

“Please don’t do this,” Naomi pleads, tilting her head, trying desperately to hold her gaze.

“No. _You_ don’t do this! Do the puppy dog eyes and reel me in again. It must be so fucking wonderful to be you, just to turn your feelings off and on like a fucking tap!” she’s practically screaming now, but she doesn’t care, because she needs to say all these things. It’ll eat her alive if she doesn’t. Naomi needs to know.

She turns away from her, quickly, looking out the rain streaked window. If she looks at her now, she knows she won’t be able to keep this up and she’ll end up giving in all over again. Just like last time.

“It’s not like that!” Naomi replies, just as loud, “I never meant to hurt you!”

“You have,” she answers, simply, without really thinking.

“I’m sorry.”

She looks at her then, because even though her voice is wavering, cracking in that way it gets when she’s angry or upset, and ordinarily, she’d accept it, but it doesn’t feel like it’s nearly enough.

“So am I,” she replies, quickly before she can change her mind. That’s true, at least. “This would be so much easier if I hated you,” she admits, after a pause, turning back to face Naomi.

She hears her sniff back tears, and when she looks up, one’s just gone down her cheek, and there are more brimming in her eyes. It feels like victory. She’s finally broken through. For a moment, she feels better, but all too quickly, the victory turns hollow. Then she looks at her, properly for the first time, and realises that she’s been hurting too. She’s broken her now. They’re the same.

Cautiously, she steps forward, brushing her hand against Naomi’s cheek. Her touch lingers a little before she drops her hand down. She reaches up, gently pressing her lips to Naomi’s. They search each other, saying nothing. She sees her own lust mirrored in Naomi’s eyes. She knows they’ve moved closer, she can’t help it. Naomi tilts her head down, she lifts hers up and they kiss again, soft and slow, but there’s no nervousness this time. It feels right, feels perfect. Feels like it could erase all the hurt. She’s missed how soft Naomi’s lips feel against hers, how they just seem to know what the other wants. Naomi’s hands move, cupping her face, kissing her harder, and she’s trapped. She feels herself relax into it, grabbing greedily at the back of Naomi’s t-shirt, needing to feel her closer. There’s a voice in her head, nagging, reminding her that they shouldn’t be doing this, but she can’t seem to stop herself. They kiss faster, deeper. When her tongue slides against Naomi’s, her entire body feels like its on fire in the best of ways. There’s a moan from Naomi then, and she swallows it down. She knows that sound now: its part contentment, part want. Naomi’s hands go into her hair, threading through it, tugging slightly. The sound comes from her this time. Naomi’s never kissed her like this before. The momentum of it pushes her back into the railing, and it’s the jolt she needs.

Breaking off the kiss abruptly, she pushes Naomi away from her.

“No, no. We can’t do this,” she exclaims breathlessly, shaking her head.

“What the fuck?!” Naomi stumbles back, confused.

This has just made things thousand times fucking worse. Now she’s just confused, because half of her wants to shag Naomi senseless on the next available surface they can find, while the other half wants to slap her in the face.

“I can’t. I just can’t,” she repeats, flustered, she scrambles for her bag, wanting, no, needing to put space between them. She turns on her heels, looking Naomi right in the eyes.

Naomi opens her mouth to speak, but then stops. She’s not sure, because she’s not close enough, but she thinks she sees tears in Naomi’s eyes again. Fear, sure, maybe shame too.

It takes all of her will to turn away and start to descend the stairs.

“Emily, wait!” Naomi calls, loudly, and then she’s running after her again.

She glances back to see Naomi standing a few steps above her.

“All I’ve ever done is wait,” she states, flatly, surprised by the harshness in her voice.

She stands there a few seconds more, looking Naomi right in the eyes, watching it register, before she forces herself to carry on downwards. All the while, she listens in the hope that Naomi will call out to her or catch up with her again, but there’s nothing. The farther away she gets, she feels her heart sink that little bit more, and tears start to well all over again, stinging, bitter tears. She hadn’t meant to hurt her; and didn’t want to be so cruel, but for the briefest of moments, it looked like their pain matched, that Naomi knew exactly how it felt when she woke up alone.

Having imagined the moment all week, she thought it would make her feel better, but it doesn’t, if anything, it’s made her feel even worse. All she wants to do is go straight back up there and hold Naomi tight; tell her everything will be OK and that it’s alright to feel confused, but she has to take something back.

It’s her own fault for giving Naomi everything.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“You’re all that I see tonight/so make it beautiful.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For notes see [Chapter One](http://archiveofourown.org/works/734298/chapters/1365149).

***

_“You’re all that I see tonight/so make it beautiful.”_

***

She should be there by now or on her way at least, but she can’t seem to make herself move. Instead, she’s been staring into space for hours curled up in her duvet, with damp hair, in nothing but an old Battlefront t-shirt, wondering how they’ll ever make it through this, or even if they can.

Tears come and go in cycles that take her over without warning, making her cling to the pillow next to her, nose pressed against it for the faintest trace of Emily’s scent. It’s become part of her routine now, her other routine, one that’s entirely separate from the cool, calm and collected self she presents to the world. That Naomi is perfectly fine. Nothing affects her, nothing hurts her, and nothing keeps her awake at night. The other Naomi, the Naomi she hides, has been breaking ever so slowly. The cracks have been there for a long time, unchecked, growing ever bigger by the day. Now, they’re wide open, and she’s got no way of holding herself together or keeping what she feels inside.

***

The date and time of Emily’s exhibition has been stuck in her head for days, despite her attempts to bury it into the farthest recesses of her mind – she buries a lot of things there, too much, she’s always known that, and this afternoon was proof. The invite came as a surprise, given that she’d failed so spectacularly to handle what happened between them. As she considers it, her gaze fixed upon row after row of poly tunnels erected in the garden being buffeted by the wind, she concludes that it’s an incredibly Emily thing to do. She’d found it by accident, when it fell out on to the floor as she opened her locker on Tuesday. When Emily posted it through the grate, she’s not sure, and she’s even less sure of what to do about it.

Fuck it. Fuck it all.

She rises slowly, pulling her duvet off the bed and taking it with her, cocooning herself tighter within it, needing the warmth. Letting out a long breath, she sits down at her desk and reaches inside her bag. For the past eleven days, she’s been carrying around the invitation and Emily’s sketch hidden within the pages of her Politics textbook, and hasn’t left her bag unattended once during that time, terrified of people rummaging through it and finding them. A risky move, perhaps, but she had no other choice. There’s no safer place to hide it, not even in her room, thanks to her mum’s revolving door policy in regard to houseguests and penchant for nosiness. In this house, locked doors and closed drawers don’t mean anything. The book falls open at exactly the right spot. There, undisturbed, just as she expected, is a small yellow envelope, adorned with elaborate swirls on the corners, and her name, written across the middle in Emily’s neat, sloping, hand. Carefully, she pulls invitation from inside. It’s a standard thing, photocopied, cut neatly. On the reverse is a message Emily left, and that’s not standard at all. That’s the problem. One of many problems she feels like she can never solve, because there’s no definite answer. Whatever she does, she’ll be wrong somehow.

Even though she knows the contents by heart, she reads it again, tracing Emily’s handwriting with her fingers as she goes.

_Naomi,_

_Thanks so much for agreeing to model for me, it means more than you know. I hope you can come to the exhibition to see the final piece. I’d love to see what you think of it. Hopefully it won’t be too painful an experience for you!_

_Emily._

It’s crumpled now, from when she screwed it up and threw it away earlier in the week – releasing days of anger and frustration with it. She just wanted to be rid of it all; the anger toward Emily, the anger toward herself, and toward the rest of the world. It was her way of making it all stop, to put on the brakes somehow, even if it was too late to attempt such things. There was a millisecond of relief as it sailed into the bin, but she regretted it immediately. No matter how many times she’s tried to flatten it out since then, the creases remain; telltale. It’ll never look _quite_ as it did before.

She wonders how long Emily carried the envelope round, and how many times she debated ripping it up and throwing it away herself, because it was so obviously written before she came over for the sitting. Those forty-odd words are like a fucking masterclass in how to be cautious and not to appear too hopeful. Life’s forced her to be that way, she thinks, bitterly. No, _she’s_ forced Emily to be that way; caged her in and shattered that hope all at once.

They don’t write about that in love songs, perhaps for good reason.

Pain. Such a useless word for feelings like this. Pain doesn’t begin to describe what she feels every single time she’s come across Emily and looked her in the eyes. Pain is too weak and too shallow a feeling to express something that robs her of breath, and makes her feel like her heart’s going to implode. Even when Emily’s not there, the feeling lingers, doubly persistent, eating away at her, because she knows, deep down, that she’s most likely ruined whatever chance they had of keeping their connection alive. She doesn’t know what else to call it, because friendship seems too small, and relationship seems too … Well, too much to wrap her head around. They’re connected. They always have been, in a way, and they probably always will be.

The sketch stays where it is, a hundred-and-twenty pages further down. It’s been entombed there ever since that Sunday. Her fingers barely touch the edge of the paper where it peeks out, not brave enough to free it, because she’s not strong enough to look at it either. Maybe she never will be. It takes a certain kind of resolve, one that she doesn’t possess.

Pretending only goes so far, and frequently falls short of the truth.

_This is how I see you._

Closing her eyes, she feels her resolve starting to slide at the memory of it, she purses her lips, clenching her jaw as she tries to contain it, ignoring the fresh tears that well, sting, and threaten to fall from her eyes once more. The girl in the sketch is different, she thinks, from the one that’s stared back at her from the mirror in the days since, but there’s no outward sign to show it. There are no scars or marks on her skin. She’s checked; inch by inch, secretly knowing the ways that Emily has changed her can’t be seen. Now that it’s happened, she can’t go back.

Slamming the book closed, she stuffs everything back into her bag, throwing it and her duvet on the floor. She’s wasted enough time wishing she could undo her mistakes: to unsay words she’s blurted out; to follow after Emily when she’s stood stock still; to stay in bed with Emily on that morning instead of running away.

Spineless.

If she was braver, the kind of brave that Emily is, she’d go to the exhibition anyway, be a good friend and support her like everyone expects. There are moments, fleeting flights of fancy – usually in the time right before it starts to get light and the night has somehow disappeared before her eyes – when she imagines what it would be like to walk into college as much more than that; hand in hand with Emily, not giving a fuck about what anyone will think. The euphoria of it soon goes; and then the panic bites. Hard.

***

Before their night together, and everything that happened after it, she’d been uneasy about going, not because of Katie or any of the other annoying twats she has the misfortune to go to college with. She could handle that, and being around Emily without too much trouble. Her worry stemmed from the fact she knew Emily’s dad, Rob, was going to be there. It was nice, she thought, fighting away the vague flicker of jealousy that arose when Emily reminded her that he was coming – she’s secretly wished for a father like Rob for years during parent and teacher conferences and awards nights – while they talked and drank, inching ever closer to each other.

It’s laughable, that mere days ago, her biggest worry that was Rob, and countless other people, would be seeing her naked. Now, she couldn’t care less. Knowing looks and judging eyes she can take, she’s used to even, but being faced with him is possibly even worse than having to face Emily again. Although a kind, mild-mannered man, when it comes to Emily, he bares his teeth and comes out all guns blazing.

Maybe, for once, she deserves that level of anger. He’s perfectly within his rights to knock her fucking head off her shoulders. She’s surprised Katie hasn’t cornered her already and done the same.

It’s just a matter of time.

***

For over a week, she’s been positively saintly – atonement perhaps, the guilt felt real enough, even if she doesn’t believe in God – and hadn’t drunk anything or taken any pills, refusing anything Effy or Cook had pointed in her direction. Initially, it was just because she needed time to recover, and wanted to be sober whenever she and Emily spoke again. Drunkenness accelerated everything between her and Emily to the point where she couldn’t cope. She concluded that things needed to be slower, calmer and safer before she could think of facing Emily again, so it meant she had to revert to sitting on the sidelines. Not entering into stupid drinking games and lethal cocktail mixes felt like the only way to achieve anything. It’s an old trick; one she’s used for as long as she can remember to stay in control and keep herself in check.

Every time she’s faltered, it’s ended badly.

Except, somewhere along the line, her self-imposed sobriety became less about protecting herself and more about protecting Emily instead. She’s not sure when the shift happened.

Day after day, night after night, she’s watched Emily unravel; sinking slowly into somewhere even Katie couldn’t reach. She saw it all, from what started as a safe distance – standing in dark corners of clubs, propping up the bar and steeling glances. Then, she moved closer, and things got that little bit more dangerous – leaning against countless bathroom sinks and listening intently for the slightest sign of movement from the cubicles Emily occupied; calling a taxi to take her home whenever she eventually emerged. They never spoke to each other, looking was enough. Silence testament to the damage done.

The ache of longing she usually felt for Emily has been replaced by guilt. It sits now, leaden and familiar in her stomach, pressing on her organs, competing for space. She can’t suffer much more.

When the changes in their behaviour were all too obvious and far too hard to ignore, everyone – JJ, Panda, Freddie, even fucking Cook – turned to her as if she should know what was going on. She’s hated it, mostly because they’re right, but mostly because she doesn’t like what it means either. It means that everyone else seems them as connected too – so she’s just batted away their concern like it’s noting and told them to fuck off and ask Emily. Eventually, they stopped saying anything at all. It was an easy get out, in those first few days, to deflect blame, to let Emily shoulder it. In the back of her mind, she couldn’t help but think of how everything had come full circle. Once, in the aftermath of a kiss, she had kept quiet to spare Emily more pain and now, years later, in the aftermath of so much more, Emily was the one doing the same for her.

The knowing looks and none-too-subtle statements from Effy have been the only other constant. They’re the only way she’s had of marking out time. Of charting the complete lack of progression, the stasis, she’s felt, despite the fact that her life’s barrelling along at high-speed, and she definitely isn’t in the driver’s seat. Effy made it sound annoyingly fucking simple, sat philosophising under the trees while they smoked. Some days, she believed the sage talk, the cool logic. It felt easy to love Emily then, like breathing. The world wouldn’t cave in. The world would probably be better, brighter, and just a little more beautiful if she did. On other days, it was less easy, because Effy’s not gifted with Emily’s patience and kindness, and doesn’t really care if her feelings get hurt because of how honest she can be. It’s forced her into thinking about things she doesn’t want to; like the fact she should find Emily and talk to her, that it wasn’t some big seduction, even if it felt like one, and she’s equally responsible for what happened. Before, during, and after.

***

Just when she thought she’d witnessed everything, that things for her, and for Emily couldn’t get any worse, they did.

To everyone else, Effy’s party was just about rounding off the week. It was the warm-up event to the weekend, but for her, it felt like the last opportunity she’d have to set things right with Emily. Too much time had passed for it to be anything else. The text inviting her came out of nowhere. Effy’s parents were going away, they were having a party. She was going to come. She would talk to Emily. Things would be fine. Typical Effy, everything was planned so meticulously, it didn’t look like a plan at all.

It seemed like a good idea go to along with it in theory, when it was just words on a screen, but in practice, it was the farthest thing from good.

Like everything else, it just felt like she happened to be there. She was a body, taking up space. Taking up air. Hours, and over half a pack of Marlboros later, with Effy’s house full of people – Emily included – she was still watching, still waiting, clutching a bottle of something nondescript and obscenely alcoholic that Effy shoved in her hand without so much as a word. Dutch courage perhaps, but it wasn’t strong enough, even when only the dregs of it were left, and she felt vaguely light-headed.

Then, she saw Emily, completely wasted, stumbling in from the garden, Cook following behind, wiping away Emily’s lipstick with the back of his hand, grinning. Smug. Victorious. She felt like she couldn’t breathe. Nausea, rage and fierce jealousy surged up in the same swell of feeling. She just wanted to grab at Emily, shake her out of her stupor and punch Cook in the face. The realisation sunk in: she couldn’t do anything at all. No matter how it hurt her. Being Emily’s protector was Katie’s job. That’s what sister’s, best friends, and more than friends did, and she wasn’t any of those. She couldn’t take the looks, the whispering and the endless questions those labels brought her. In her nothing state, she pressed her body closer to the wall, and clutched the neck of her bottle tighter, focussing her anger there instead, expecting the glass to shatter at any moment. As they passed her, weaving through the people around them, yet to meet with Katie or anyone else they knew, she couldn’t keep from watching Emily; face flushed, her gaze fixed on some distant point.

The arguing started soon enough, with Katie doing most of the shouting, along with Freddie, and Cook with Emily stuck in the middle, protesting, and bewildered, unsteady on her feet. She only caught snatches, and desperately wanted to be closer, to pull Emily away now she was free and look after her like all the other nights, but she couldn’t force herself to move. Once they started to drown out the music, thirty-odd pairs of suddenly interested eyes taking in the show. Katie swatted Cook’s hands away from where they rested on Emily’s hips, and then things got even louder. Cook seemed to think the whole thing was hilarious, while Katie was out for blood, pulling Emily away, dragging her toward the front door. Then, the arguing was just between her and Emily, with Freddie trying desperately to intervene. She couldn’t make out their words at all, but their faces everything for them.

She thinks she’ll always remember the look on Effy’s face when she sought her out from across the living room. There were no words then either, but she’d said them; silently pleaded for Effy’s help, and she gave it. Ignoring Katie completely, she swooped in and ushered Emily away, refusing to stop when she struggled against her. The moment they were gone, the tension dissipated, and Katie just stood there, silent, as Freddie tried to comfort her, leading her toward the kitchen, ducking when she pushed him away. No matter how much she willed Katie to turn round or wished that she could just open her mouth and speak, to tell them all right there and then, she couldn’t do it. She’d failed Emily. Again.  


The music stalled for a track change, and then everything went on as it did before. Everything and nothing had changed.

She slammed down her empty bottle on the mantelpiece, and cut across the room, squeezing herself between the bodies, fending off the narrow-eyed looks and the swearing. Emily had suffered enough, she had to do something. Effy met her half way, and practically dragged the rest of the way to her bedroom. It was a shock, to see her like that, passed out on Effy’s bed, clothes skewed, face streaked with mascara – a million miles away from Emily she knew. From the Emily who she’d shared her bed with. Effy gave her another long look that said, ‘fix this, Campbell’ and a thousand other things too, and then left, shutting the door behind her.

First, she paced the room, then she sat at the foot of the bed, staring at the ceiling and listening for the slightest noise. Eventually, she ended up lying right next to her, scant space between them, brushing the hair from Emily’s eyes whilst she slept; holding it back when she was sick, and holding her tentatively close when she shivered with cold. She didn’t sleep, instead, she just watched over her, determined that things couldn’t carry on as they were, and whenever they crossed paths next – hopefully when Emily had sobered up – they’d sort everything out. She was sure of it.

A line had been drawn. This had to stop.

Emily probably doesn’t remember because she was so extraordinarily fucking drunk, but she remembers enough for the both of them, and the last thing she wanted was for Emily to feel indebted to her. She didn’t deserve anything from her. So, as soon as the sun began to seep in through Effy’s curtains, she made doubly sure there’d be no awkward confrontation, and let herself out while Emily was still asleep, praying that she’d get home OK. Somehow. She couldn’t afford to wait and see.

When she got home herself, all she could do was collapse on her bed, and she managed to sleep through most of the day. Late, and completely unprepared for coming face to face with Emily again – or Kieran for that matter, he’d been giving her concerned looks throughout their tutorial earlier in the week – she’d just let things unfold; taken Emily’s hand, let her touch, in the hope that when she needed to, she could trust herself to say the right thing.

It worked out _fabulously._

***

By now, she’d hoped, somehow – stupidly – that things would be alright between them. It could’ve been resolved so easily. One conversation. Twenty words, maybe less. She’d planned to sort things out at the earliest opportunity, corner her before registration on Monday in the hope of at least clearing the air and giving back Emily her sketch, but it never happened. Emily was already sat down when she came in, Katie at her side, glaring and full of disdain, like she knew everything.

Once she’d dragged herself through one day carrying on as normal, dodging random questions, and avoiding Emily by taking different routes to her lessons, doing the same for another day didn’t seem so terrifying; because the separation felt fractionally less acute. That only made things worse, she sees that now. The longer they didn’t talk; the harder it’s become to talk at all. Every evening, without fail, she’d take the long way home, just so she’d pass Emily’s house. It was ridiculous – beyond fucking ridiculous – to be going to such lengths, but she had to try, needed to try. She promised herself she’d stop, that she’d walk up the drive, knock on the door and make Emily listen. Though she came close, she never quite had the courage. Before she knew it, one day had turned into eleven, and her all chances had gone.

She turns her wrist, checks her watch and sees that another half hour has passed, and she’s no closer to leaving the house. Emily’s probably past caring now. She sounded like she had this afternoon. There’s only so much disappointment a person can take, and Naomi thinks she’s probably set some kind of fucking world record with what she’s put her through recently.

Today, she hit a new low, and this time, the person she hurt was herself. She’s felt the depths of it all; how far Emily goes. It’s measureless.

***

After the Hamlet disaster, and Emily leaving her on the stairs, she couldn’t go back to the classroom, but she couldn’t go to her either, not after what she’d said and how clearly she’d said it. Her time was up. She tried, of course, willed herself to go, to be brave enough to catch her up; just say everything that’s been rattling round her head for days, weeks, months even – sentences various all containing words like ‘love’ and ‘sorry’ and ‘forgive me’ – but she didn’t move, the words never came, and she was left watching Emily’s figure cross the car park, growing ever smaller, farther away in every sense. It all felt so final; like an invisible cord had been cut without her knowledge and now she all she could do was look at the wounds left behind.

She ended up on Brandon Hill, with a bottle of cheap cider in her hands, chugging it down until things got fuzzy and the pain was gone. She knew it’d happen the moment she stepped out of Mr Sharma’s shop, carrying the plastic bag, having the good fortune of being served by his son, Ritesh, with his toothpaste advert smile and perfect sideburns, instead of the kindly, law-abiding old man who had known her since she was five, and let her have extra sweets, pretending he wasn’t looking.

All she wanted to do was forget. All she wanted was for everything to stop.

It worked, for a while at least.

Three quarters of the bottle down, she felt superhuman, like she could march over to the Fitches and hammer the door down, tell Emily everything, whatever _everything_ was, just as she’d intended every day she’d cycled past the house on her way home. Determined, she began to walk, picking up her pace to something like running, until she felt a wave of sickness surge up from nowhere, and she lurched toward the bushes, throwing all the cider back up until her sides ached, and she was left lying in the grass, coughing and spluttering as she wiped at her mouth with the back of her hand, looking at the world sideways through blurry eyes, as hot tears streaked down her face.

Not her finest hour, but then, there have been a lot of those lately.

Instead of feeling worse; she felt better, oddly cleansed, even though the bitter acidic taste of it all remained, persistent. It was a brief respite. An escape hatch. A glimmer in the pitch darkness. Her relief only grew when she began to cry like she had when she found Emily’s note and her room empty. Those tears had wanted to come ever since that morning – every time she and Emily passed each other in the corridor, or glanced at each other across a classroom; when she stood with Emily on the stairs – but they wouldn’t. On the outside, she looked cold and uncaring, just like Emily believed her to be, but on the inside, she was begging for forgiveness; screaming for it.

That was her wake up call.

***

Since sobering herself up with the coldest shower she could stand, brushing her teeth endlessly, and gargling with industrial qualities of mouthwash, she’s locked herself away in her bedroom with her music blaring, too exhausted to do anything but cry – for herself, for Emily, and then for no real reason at all.

Three hours later, and she still feels just as confused. Half of her wants to stay in this room forever and hide, while the other desperately wants to see Emily again. She’s damned either way, knowing all too well that she’s got nothing to lose, since she’s never really had anything in the first place. Fleeting, weed-induced glimpses of happiness, when her walls are down and she let’s herself be are exactly that, fleeting. It’s worse now, that she’s seen what her life could be like if Emily were in it. If she let the thread that’s kept them tied over the years grow stronger instead of hacking away at it, fighting to cut herself loose.

“Fuck it,” she sighs, clambering over the piles of clothes, books, CDs, and jewellery strewn on the floor.

Desperation wins, because she can’t stand another day of this hellish limbo.

Time to make this right. All of it.

Picking through her wardrobe, it dawns on her that she has no idea what to wear. It doesn’t bother her usually, she’s never been one for that shallow bollocks, but this feels important. It matters. She wants Emily to notice her, but more than that, she wants Emily to know that she cares. For a moment, panic flutters in her stomach as she ponders why that is, and redoubles because it’s obvious. Wanting to look nice for a reason, _for_ Emily, is a foreign feeling; a different kind of agony to the one that she’s been dealing with, and one she’s not remotely comfortable with either. When every other girl in the world was off reading Heat and Cosmo, learning girly rules about make-up, matching clothes, and the secret to a perfect hairstyle, she was learning about the rest of the world beyond all of those things; learning languages and reading Kerouac and Proust. Clever she might be, but co-ordinated she’s not.

It crosses her mind – very briefly – that she should phone Effy, because she seems to have this kind of thing sorted, given the fact that anyone with a pulse seems inexplicably, magnetically, drawn to her without her needing to try. That’s allure, she supposes. But, if she included Effy in this, it’d undoubtedly turn into some big fucking thing, and there will be questions and pisstaking because Effy knows it winds her up. No, she’ll do this without her. It’s already a big thing, the biggest. She needs to get it right, just once, because so far, she’s managed to be a gigantic twat every time her mouth isn’t attached to Emily’s, and sometimes even when it is.

If she could, she’d go naked, not for the attention, but for the simple fact that she always feels that way when she’s around Emily, and twice as vulnerable. Coming to a stop on a simple shirt dress, black, with short-sleeves that she hardly ever wears, she feels marginally less nervous. It comes out whenever she needs to look professional or something nearing an adult. Appropriate. It’s good armour. Keep it simple. No bright colours. No clashing. No distractions. She wants to blend in tonight; be as insignificant as wallpaper until the time’s right. At least, that’s the plan, or the start of something like one.

***

Standing in front of her mirror, she puts on her make-up with shaky hands, exhaling even shakier breaths. It’s nothing too complicated, just mascara and eyeliner, with a little lipstick, blood red. This part of her outfit isn’t really purposeful, the choices are pure habit, that and the fact she looks terrible enough already – pale, tried, lost – without adding to it. This is her third attempt, but it’s finally looking right. There’s too much black, she thinks, after a moment, inspecting herself as she turns around. It looks like she’s in mourning. Maybe she is.

It would have to do. Time isn’t on her side.

She moves further back to get the full effect. Letting out a long breath, she smoothes down the dress, redoing a button that’s slid open again. There’s only one thing ruining it, a stupid thing, tiny really, on the face of it, but now she’s seen it, she can’t stop looking at it. Usually, her hair’s pretty straight, and doesn’t take much work, thank God, because she’s not one of _those_ girls, like Katie or Karen who are enslaved to making it look perfect with serums, sprays, and straightners – but tonight, it’s neither curly nor straight, and it’s ruining the illusion of her togetherness, throwing everything else off-kilter. She reaches for her brush, attacking it, curling the back under itself in the hope that it’ll flatten, doing the opposite to the sides so that they’ll straighten. As soon as she stops, the curls spring back, defiant, just on the right side, and _not_ in a cool Hollywood glamour film star way. It’s no good. If anything, it looks worse.

The one time she has to look decent …

She tries again, pulling the brush harder, ignoring the tugging when it snags, but it makes no difference. In frustration, she throws the brush and it spirals, hitting her radiator with a loud clang. Maybe making an effort was the wrong idea after all?

“Ah, so, you’ve migrated from slamming the door off its hinges to Olympic hairbrush throwing? Well, at least you’re dressed.”

She jumps out of her skin, turning to see her mum, studying her curiously, arms folded, barely in the door.

“Fucking hell!” she exclaims, and clutches at her chest, deafened by the pounding of blood in her ears. “Will you _stop_ creeping up on me?!”

“Sorry darling,” her mum says, not looking sorry at all.

She’s in no mood for this.

“There’s this strange concept, Mum, it’s called knocking. Have you heard of it? People don’t generally barge into rooms when doors are closed. I know we have very different ideas about the concept of personal space, but can you, just once, do something I ask?”

She tries to look busy, stamping her feet angrily into her Vans. There’s no way she can suffer heels tonight with everything else she’s got to contend with. They look odd, scruffy, compared to the rest of her outfit, but there’s no real point pretending that she’s going to waltz in there, primped, perfect, and graceful, like she’s in some crappy romantic comedy, and she’ll sweep Emily off her feet. The time for that is long, long, gone.

“Well,” her mum begins, picking slowly across the room toward her. “I doubt that you’d have heard me. Are you trying to give everyone tinnitus?” she reaches over, and turns off the stereo.

The silence that engulfs the room is terrifying. Unless she’s quick and can bundle her mum out the room without re-enacting The Spanish Inquisition, there will be talking and listening, with nothing to distract them. The longer she talks, the closer to the truth she’ll get. It’s dangerous. It's a truth she's not ready to tell, at least, not to anyone other than Emily. Maybe. So, she does what she always does, tried and tested. She shuts down the opportunity before it has the space to arise.

“Do we have to do this now? I’m really not in the mood,” she sighs, and turns away, reaching for her bag and rifling through it for Emily’s invitation.

“How do you even find anything in this room? It looks like a bomb’s hit it. Honestly Naomi,” her mum asks, not waiting for a reply before she navigates carefully around across the room, trying to avoid everything on the floor.

Out of sheer habit, she stops listening. Since she’s been old enough to understand where she lies, priority wise, in her mum’s life, and how low down that is compared to the planet, recycling, endangered species, and the social welfare of everyone and everything but her – which happened somewhere around her ninth birthday, about the same time she stopped having birthday cakes because it was a ‘frivolous waste of food.’ As a result, she’s only heard about twenty-five percent of her mum’s speeches, and even then, can reel off the basic gist without too much trouble. She thinks she’s being clever, witty, and cool by acting more like a friend than a mother, constantly reiterating the importance of being her own person, but it’s getting rather tiresome.

Thanks to her mum, she’s learned something else too, that dependency is a dirty word. As dirty as ‘sorry,’ ‘I love you,’ and ‘please don’t leave me.’ She was too young know, really, what her dad leaving them did, but now, the damage is there for all to see. It dawns on her then, belatedly, that some of this isn’t actually her fault. It’s part of her DNA, like her blue eyes and her quick temper. Impossible to change. She can’t give her heart away, she has to wait, protect it, until the last possible moment, and even then, she’ll be on her guard, fearful of it breaking. Always. If anyone can break it, and break it truly, finally, beyond the point of repair, it’s Emily.

It’s a risk she has to take, because Emily’s the only person she’s ever wanted to give it to.

***

Her mum sits on the edge of the bed, uninvited, smoothing the duvet, “Would you like to talk about it, love?”

“No, I wouldn’t _like_ to talk about it,” she spits out, eyeing her mum’s reflection in the mirror, glaring at her slightly too long. “I’ve got to go. Unlike some people, who like to interfere in people’s lives, I actually have my own. It’s Emily’s exhibition tonight, and I’m late already,” she waves the envelope as proof and snatches up her bag, slinging it across herself.

“Ah, _Emily_ ,” her mum says, stressing the name.

“What’s that supposed to mean?!” she turns to face her, eyes narrow. Angry.

“We never did have that talk.”

They look at each other for far too long. Her mouth goes dry, and she’s sure her cheeks are burning. She can feel it. She can feel the tide of words, waiting to surge out of her mouth and drown them both.

“For fuck’s sake! There’s nothing to talk about!” she says, finally, exasperated, and starts to walk off. Her mum doesn’t move an inch and she knows she’s being watched. Analysed. Judged. She turns back, enraged. “It’s a bit late for all this isn’t it? What, you’ve run out of causes, so you’ve finally come back to me?”

“Naomi, that’s not fair,” her mum replies, turning the hairbrush in her hands.

They say the truth hurts. She’s learned it’s a lot like getting stabbed, only there’s no blood to speak of.

“No, it’s not, but it doesn’t make it any less true,” she snaps back.

“You know you’re important to me,” it comes out in her calm, reasonable tone.

She takes a breath, feels her anger rising as her fingers curl into fists, nails digging into her palms. “Do I? You’re never fucking here!” she’s shouting now – or as near as she can get to it before her voice gives out – but, she doesn’t really know why. Her throat’s raw, and it hurts to swallow. The words sound foreign.

Stop. Stop. Stop.

What the fuck is she doing? Why is she pushing her away? Why is she hurting the one person in the world who probably wouldn’t bat an eyelid if she told her how she feels about Emily, or if she said she wanted run off somewhere with her next Tuesday, never to return and live in an Ashram. Instead of disowning her and throwing her out of the house, she’d give her money for the plane ticket instead.

Liberalism has its faults.

“Naomi,” it’s a warning, but it’s laced with concern. “What’s wrong? Tell me. I’m not blind. I’ve heard you coming in at all hours, drunk.”

She interrupts her, jumping in as a last ditch attempt to shut this down. “What, being a normal teenager? Unsociable hours, check. Drunken behaviour, check. Dubious moral decisions, check. Isn’t that what you wanted? Are you proud?”

The look she gets in reply says anything but that. She thinks that maybe she’s wanted this, to provoke something in her somehow. People are always forcing her hand, forcing her into showing feelings she’s not ready to feel, let alone name. It’s bittersweet revenge, because this fight isn’t really all that fair.

Her mum sighs heavily, “I just want you to be happy. I always have, but clearly you’re not.”

“Oh, I’m fucking fantastic! Can’t you see? It’s all sunshine and fucking rainbows, Mum. Bristol is Xanadu incarnate!” she laughs, bitterly. “Have we finished? Do you feel better?”

Her mum flinches. She knows that one cut deep. It’s meant to.

The room descends into silence again, and she’s surprised that no one’s come upstairs to see what the arguing is about. There’s always something going on though, some ‘debate’ or other, thanks to too many people living in too small a space. She’s never been afraid to speak her mind; speaking her heart is another matter. Being distant and deliberately antagonistic are dangerously close to becoming her default setting. It’s infuriating, because she knows – maybe she’s always known – that the only real obstacle to her happiness is herself. What do you do to fix that? Psychological therapy? Brain surgery? Emigrating to another country?

“I’ve heard you crying.”

She swallows hard. She’s got no reply to that. The sentence hangs in the air between them, weighty and undeniable. She hasn’t suffered this alone after all. Even though she hasn’t shared one meal with Brian, Moses or whoever else happens to be home, and Imogen got the worst of her anger when she’s dared to ask about Emily – only Alan stepping in and taking her into the garden for a smoke stopped it from turning into a full-blown fight. They knew. They _all_ knew. It was stupid of her to think that she could ever hide it from them. There’s just too many people. Too many eyes looking, and too many ears listening. Her mouth hangs open as she processes it, shifting from complete relief to sheer panic in the blink of an eye. Then, just as fast, she goes to her fallback position: denial.

It doesn’t mean anything. It can’t mean anything.

“It’s nothing. Nothing to do with you! It’s all me, OK? Your spectacular fuck up of a daughter!”

She feels tears starting to well up again; her whole body tenses. Her breaking point, or what she thought was her breaking point, happened a long time ago, and she thought there was nothing beyond it. Until now. She’s waiting her mum to march across the room. She’s waiting for the sling of a slap to snap her out of this. There won’t be one though, her mum’s a pacifist, and doesn’t believe in smacking children either. It’s what she needs. It’s what she deserves. Something to break her fall.

Her mum looks at her sadly, tilting her head, taking her in as if seeing her anew. Maybe she is. They’ve never really known each other, not really.

“Is this about Emily?”

It’s such a quiet question, for a few, long seconds, she thinks she imagined it. A trick of the mind. Then, her mum moves toward her, cautiously, waiting for an answer.

Yes.

She makes the sound in her head over and over, willing it free, taking a deeper breath in the hope of making it happen. Instead of the word coming out, a whimper that breaks into a sob arrives in its place. She looks away, ashamed of herself, fighting with the last shred of will she has not to break down completely.

Keep it together. Fucking hell.

“Everything’s such a fucking mess, Mum,” she says, in a small, ragged voice, shaking her head. Her mum steps closer, and does the last thing she expects: she hugs her. She resists it at first, unsure, but eventually, she allows herself to let go, her bag sliding off her shoulder to the floor as she gives in. “I don’t know what to do, how I can fix it,” she continues feeling unshed tears forming, her words partly muffled as she clings to her mum, squeezing tight, like she’s four instead of seventeen.

She’s missed the contact. She craves the innocence. It feels like lifetimes ago.

“It’s alright, love. It’s alright.”

She pulls away, feeling tears roll down her cheek, reflex now, betraying her. “No it’s not.”

Her mum reaches, pushing back the hair that’s fallen into her face, and gently brushes away what’s left of her tears. In that moment, she sees her own sadness reflected in her mum’s eyes. It’s strange, but she feels relief. Her mum gently guides her to sit down on the bed, as if she’s an invalid of some kind, pressing a hand between her shoulders to steer her.

She doesn’t say anything for a moment, wondering how to even start the sentence, or even if she can. Unusually, there’s no coaxing from her mum either. Looking down at her hands, she finally says, “I’ve hurt her. Really hurt her.”

“Oh Naomi,” her mum replies, sadly, pulling her into a hug.

“I never meant to. I just … I just feel –” she cuts herself off, feeling her panic rising. She’s not quite ready to say _that_ out loud. Her stomach churns at the thought.

“I know, I know. People rarely do. These things can just … happen,” she pauses, takes her hand. “Just go tonight. Go and support Emily. If an opportunity to speak to her comes up, take it. You don’t get many chances to fix your mistakes, darling. Tell her the truth. She deserves that.”

“I don’t know if I can,” she stares down at her shoes, wishing for her heart to slow and her panic to settle. The only thing that does settle is dread; leaden and thick somewhere in her stomach, occupying its usual space, like a new, special, organ.

Her mum turns to face her then, holding her gaze. “You’ll never know unless you try. You can’t go on as you are. It’s not healthy, for either of you.”

She nods, knowing deep down that her mum’s making sense, probably for the first time ever. “But, everyone else …” she tails off, falling silent. “I just can’t face that,” she continues, quietly, with a shake of her head, pursing her lips closed.

Images flash up in her mind at the thought: new gossip on the toilet wall; whispering in the corridors every time she walks past; Emily’s parents blaming her for everything; Katie making their lives hell for a second time, repeating their shared loneliness.

“In the end though, nothing else really matters but what’s in here,” she pauses, placing a hand over her heart, tapping for emphasis. “If it feels right, then it must be right. Do what makes you happy. _Be_ happy.”

It sounds clichéd, and every inch the hippie mantra, but it’s the kind of logic she can’t argue with.

New images come then: writing their names enclosed in a heart on a wall somewhere; Emily holding her hand when they walk down the corridor; Emily’s parents coming to realise how important they are to each other; Katie deciding to turn over a new leaf and be their ally instead of their enemy; sharing her life and world someone, with Emily, for the first time ever. She could have that, if she wanted. If Emily wanted. It’s all so close, and yet, feels so far away, distant and unattainable. Like travelling to a far off place that you can’t pronounce, because it’s too long a word with too many consonants and too few vowels – all without the aide of a map and only some vague semblance of where you want to be.

She’s painfully aware that Emily could just walk away from this, and the new place she’s finally stumbled upon would become barren. Useless. The struggle to reach it, dragging herself step-by-step, would be rendered entirely futile.

That alone is terrifying.

“I’ll try …” it sounds weak, almost hollow as she says it, but the sentiment is true enough. She means to do it.

Looking up, she catches her reflection in the mirror for the first time. Her eyes are puffy and red, her mascara’s run, leaving dark inky trails across her cheeks in their wake, and her hair’s twice as messy. She looks a right state. She always tells Emily half-truths somehow; lies by omission. If she went as she was, at least it would be the whole truth. The unvarnished kind, no doubt, but it’s not exactly the stuff that dreams are made of. For once, she wants to be dream girl Emily seems to think she is.

Would she ever be that girl? Would she ever be good enough? Would she ever be worthy of her?

“Jesus, I look a mess,” despite herself, she can’t help but smile, scoffing at her own ineptitude.

“Can’t have Emily seeing you like this, can we?” her mum smiles back, barely, but it’s warm. It’s reassuring. “Come on, over here, let’s sort you out.”

She follows obediently toward the mirror, wipes off her make-up while her mum watches, handing her things every so often to speed up the process. In the end, she looks similar to before, but it’s all a little a cleaner and brighter. Purposefully neutral. The lipstick this time closer to her natural lip colour, just slightly glossy, and she has a toned down version of the trademark smoky, dark eyes that Emily seems to like so much. OK, so not _quite_ a fresh-faced cover girl, but definitely better than the borderline gothic heroine she looked like before. It’s the closest to normal, to her ordinary self she’s felt in a long time. Somehow, strangely, her insides feel lighter, the weight of this, the weight of these feelings has lessened. Her mum knows, maybe she’s known all along, and there’s been no big scene, the world hasn’t stopped turning like she feared it always would. It hasn’t even tilted slightly on its axis.

False comfort, perhaps, compared with what she has to come, but she’ll take what she can.

***

“You know, whenever I used to brush your hair when you were little, this bit would never lie flat either,” her mum smiles softly, running a different brush through her hair, more carefully than she ever did.

She doesn’t reply and just smiles back instead, as a memory of sitting on the kitchen cupboard in this very house drifts to the front of her mind. Her mum, stood there, doing much the same thing as she is now, detangling her hair and trying to put into a ponytail. There’s a picture, somewhere, that Sally took just after. Everyone likes it. Sometimes she wonders where that little girl went to. Sometimes she wonders, especially on night’s like this, if that little girl ever went away.

“Still my little wild girl, you are.”

When she looks up again into her mum’s eyes, hearing her voice break at the end of her sentence, she sees something wistful, nostalgic even, before something altogether different passes over her. Something she can’t quite describe. Not because it looks alien, but because of how familiar it seems, because of how many times she’s seen it reflected in her own eyes whenever she’s looked at herself in the mirror. It looks like loneliness.

“Mum,” she begins, but then stops, because she has no idea what to say; what could possibly give her any comfort.

It’s gone now, shaken off somehow, just like she forces herself to.

“Let’s try this, it always worked when you were four,” her mum says, after a moment, reaching for a messy collection of hair clips on the dressing table. It’s a bigger smile this time, the lingering sadness between them has gone.

Sure enough, it does work, and she looks at herself in the mirror, surprised when her mum steps back to admire her handiwork. She touches the three, neat, shiny, clips on the right side of her hair, fixing it in place. It looks just how she’d hoped. Just how she wanted.

Her mum taps her hand lightly to warn her off, “Leave it. It looks lovely,” and adds as she stands up, “ _you_ look lovely.”

“Really?” she asks, unsure. Sceptical. She’s not used to people paying her compliments.

Cook saying random things about her tits doesn’t count.

“Really. Ask the others if you don’t believe me.”

“Thank you,” she replies, simply, reaching for her bag once more. “I’m sorry I’ve been so –”

Her mum cuts her off, kissing her lightly atop the head, “I understand,” she pulls her close again, into another hug, squeezing tight. This time, she doesn’t resist. “She will too, darling. She’s special that girl.”

She screws her eyes shut at her mum’s words, feeling herself choking up. It’s not just her. Someone else sees it too. It makes it real. Undeniable. As if it were anything else.

***

She takes the stairs slowly this time, nerves building in her stomach, swirling with butterflies, as if this were a real date, and Emily would show up at any second with flowers, chocolates or something equally ridiculous, like a bad teen film. The whole thing suddenly feels enormous again, and she wants to run away. It makes her stall three steps before the bottom, it takes a gentle push from her mum to make her head to the kitchen, hovering awkwardly in the doorway.

Everyone’s crowded round the table, Alan at one end, cleaning bike parts; Imogen at the other, curled up with a book, ever studious. The radio’s blaring – some deep-voiced man with posh accent chairing an environmental debate – while the washing machine runs in the corner. Brian’s at the stove, stirring something and watching over it intently, and Sally leans against the sink with her hands cupped around a mug of coffee, glancing across to Zeph’s baby monitor when it lights up. Moses is the first to see her, and he smiles like she always imagined her Dad might do.

“Well, look at you!” he beams, and she flushes immediately.

The whole room seems to erupt into a chorus of ‘oohs’ and ‘ahhs’ then, and they gather round her like she’s something special. Like the whole thing’s been organised with the same level of idiotic manufacture as a surprise party. It’s the kind of thing her mum and Sally would engineer, and she’s looking suspicious enough for the both of them. It’s unsettling, sort of, but then, it bolsters her confidence. It makes her begin to doubt things, doubt what she’s doing, just a little bit less. Even Imogen gives her a nod of approval, and instead of some cutting, bitchy little remark, she gets a smile. It’s like she’s in some parallel universe where they’ve reached this weird sort of armistice without her notice. The weirdness continues when the others fall over each other to exclaim how ‘lovely’ and ‘pretty’ she looks, like they’ve never seen her before in their lives, it’s her wedding day or she’s fucking Cinderella. She wants the floor to swallow her whole. Just then, her mum squeezes her shoulder, and whispers a “see?” in her ear.

“Oh yeah, it’s little Emily’s art thing, isn’t it?” Alan says, with a knowing look.

Little Emily. It pains her somewhere in her chest that he thinks of her so affectionately already.

“Of course!” Brian pipes up, brandishing his spoon. “Someone special going then?” he grins.

 _Shit_. No, he doesn’t mean Emily. He can’t mean Emily. Stop being so fucking ridiculous.

She pushes away the panic that rises up to her throat, imagining the questions snowballing out of control. Hoping to God he really _does_ mean someone else, because it’d be easier to fend off; easier to lie about. If she could teleport herself straight to Emily now and just get it all over and done with, she would. There’s too many things she wants to say, no, needs to say, that are fighting their way out from inside of her, having seen the daylight already. If she’s not careful, she’ll tell them instead of Emily.

When Sally steps in and saves her from mortal embarrassment, she breathes a sigh of relief.

“Oh, leave the girl alone! What’s wrong with looking nice?!” she smiles, coming across for a closer look. Then, she leans over and whispers, “You look gorgeous, honey. She’ll love it.”

Automatically, she tenses, inhaling a telltale sharp breath and nodding stiffly. All too aware of the others, she fixes her mouth into a tight smile. “Thanks.”

She has to get used to this, people knowing, obviously, if she’s going to lay her heart open for Emily, but it still stings at the moment. Still makes her feel two-feet tall and insecure, even though it’s not as bad as when she, well, confessed to her mum. That was cheating really, because she didn’t really need hear the whole of the story to know how she was feeling. Emily though, was a different matter. She’d want the painful nuts and bolts of it all, the things that she was less sure of. Would she have it in her to wait again? Would she help her? Maybe, maybe not.

“I should, erm, go. I’m late,” she stumbles over her words, blushing, retreating backwards.

Alan stands up suddenly, as if he’s been waiting for his cue, “Want me to take you on the bike, love? Might get you there a bit quicker?”

She thinks about it for a moment, imagines herself with ridiculously windswept hair or looking like a drowned rat if it rains. Of course, once everyone else saw him – especially if he hung about, because he enjoys winding her up – they’d jump to conclusions and think this bloke – six-foot worth of leather, tattoos and a serious handlebar moustache – was her dad. Usually, she’d be fine with that, it’d be fun even, to throw that into the legendary mix of Naomi Campbell myths that circulate at Roundview, but tonight, she doesn’t want them to think anything at all.

“Nah,” she pauses, fiddling with the strap of her bag, adjusting needlessly, “I’ll take my bike, Carbon Emissions and all that.”

“Right you are,” he gives her a little salute, sitting down again.

She takes a breath, feeling her nervousness return, equal parts dread and a weird sort of excitement, as she heads toward the door. Before opening it, she turns back, seeing her mum and Sally stood together, grinning, conspiratorial.

“Go on, off with you!” her mum starts, waving a hand to shoo her forward.

“The whole bloody thing will be finished before you get there!” Sally chimes in, overlapping.

She smiles, nodding, resisting the massive urge she has to stick her finger up at the both of them for being ridiculous and making far too much fuss of her, even if she does, secretly, somewhere, love them for it, even if she’s hit a whole new level of embarrassment as a result. When she finally opens the door, she’s hit by a blast of cold air, but she shrugs it off. The door slams, loudly, like always, and it pushes everything into focus. The next time she comes through it, everything will have changed. Either she’ll have Emily back in her life, or she’ll be gone from it for good. Before she can change her mind, and double back, she fetches her bike from where it’s chained next to Alan’s vintage Harley, just like always, unlocking it with less than steady hands, like always. She heads off down the road, beginning to pick up speed she goes toward the hill; certain and uncertain at the same time.

For once in her life, she’ll prove Emily wrong.

***

Things can be repaired. It’s possible.

If nothing else, Emily will know the truth, and there’s something to be said for that in a world where people think nothing of lying. Deep down, she knows too, that she’ll be forgiven, eventually. It sounds presumptuous, and slightly selfish, to think so, and she hates herself for it, because she’s desperate – really fucking desperate – for it to happen. Forgiveness. Anything else, well, that’s a bonus. Emily’s stubborn, just as stubborn as her, if not more so, but Emily’s kinder too. It’s a blessing, and a curse, she realises, caring that much, because it means Emily tries that little bit harder when others would walk away; enduring more hurt when most susceptible to it.

So many people _have_ walked away and given up, that she wants to stop that cycle. It means that she _wants_ to try that little bit harder to make things right between them. She wants for Emily to be the one she never loses. The one who never leaves her behind.

She’ll fight to keep her, she’ll show her, no matter how it makes her look, and no matter what it gets her in the end.

***

Even though she’s nervous, her stomach churning, acidic, and everything in her is telling her to go in the opposite direction, she carries on. Weaving through the traffic, she ignores the ache in her chest; the burning in her legs from peddling so hard, high off the seat; and the cold whipping against her skin, uffling her hair as she picks up speed. It’s the kind of pain she likes, the kind makes her remember she’s alive. It’s freeing; makes her feel like she’s on the edge of everything. Galvanised, yet weightless.

She pushes everything, or nearly everything away – she’s not someone who ever really stops thinking – so she tunes herself into the city to give her something else to focus on, instead of the fifty-five ways of saying ‘hello,’ ‘sorry’ and ‘forgive me,’ that are currently running relentlessly through her mind. As soon as she listens, really listens, she feels calmer, strangely soothed by the booming car stereos; spluttering exhausts; and the distant sound of wailing police sirens. It’s comforting, that cacophony, like white noise, distracting her from other things, closer things: like the shifting of the chain and the gears as she goes; and the steady, but quickening pound of her own heart, more reliable than any clock.

Calm down, Campbell, for fuck’s sake.

All she has to do is get there in one piece. It’s easy.

***

She needed this time, she thinks; this space to breathe. If she _had_ gone the moment she was dressed, when she was in no way ready at all, she would’ve taken all that anger, all that rage out on Emily. Though she might’ve felt better, like they were even, in this elaborate, emotional game they’re playing, it wouldn’t have helped, no matter if there’s still a small part of her that’s angry she feels this way at all. Angry that her life’s been turned upside down by this sweet, unassuming girl for a second time. Emily’s smashed down her barricades with stealth and precision. So efficient, that she never even realised when that anger began to dissipate, replaced by the opposite feeling, overwhelming her and tipping the balance inside of her entirely. A small, yet cataclysmic shift. There’s no date. No time. Nothing. Only then and now, the distance blanked by the struggle in between.

Feeling something and truly knowing why you feel it aren’t the same thing, despite appearances. It still troubles her. There’s no neat resolution, but there’s also no escaping the obvious either.

I love Emily. I’m _in_ love with her.

She’s said it of course, aloud, and _to_ Emily, a sleeping Emily, granted, but she still said it. She meant it, then, of course she meant it, and not in a post-shag rush of feelings way either. The whole ‘in love’ bit, well, that’s new, and different again. The thought’s crossed her mind, but it’s not stuck fast like this before. It feels real. A smile plays on her lips as she repeats the word in her head, that weighty little word – love – and then, quietly out loud as she waits for yet another set of traffic lights to change from red to green. Each time, it’s repeated, it feels a little easier. Her chest is less tight, and the panic she has is changing, heading toward fifty-fifty nervousness and excitement.

In all the pain, she’s forgotten the thrill of secrets: secretly looking when Emily’s not; secretly smiling when she makes a joke in lessons that no one else quite gets; the secret touches during Hamlet that she wishes she never cut short. If she did what her heart wanted, what it truly asked for in every quickened beat when she was in Emily’s company, well, they’d never be apart again. Dramatic, perhaps, but it’s no less true.

Her only regret – no, there are more mistakes she carries – her latest regret? That she didn’t come to this conclusion earlier. A new fear rushes her body as the lights change and she picks up speed once more, rounding corner near The Fishponds: that she and Emily run on different time, lives operating on seemingly parallel tracks. Just because she’s ready, reeling from her very own belatedly Damascus moment, it doesn’t mean that Emily’s ready, willing or remotely able to try again.

She pushes hard for the last little bit of the journey – she’s going to pack in smoking after this, she’s seventeen, it shouldn’t be taking _this_ much effort – seeing the college in the distance, lit up, with a few cars going through the gate. If only she’d had the good sense to pull herself from this pit of … _whatever_ before now, and talked to her mum earlier, she could be there, talking to Emily and looking at her work, instead of nearly killing herself to make it. With everything else, she’s forgotten that the sketch, painting, whatever, is actually the point of this. What would it look like? At one point, it might’ve looked nice, softly rendered, beautiful even – the way Emily’s drawn it, not the fact she’s in it, she’s not _that_ conceited – like all the other sketches of Emily’s she’s seen. But now, there’s probably a ten-foot tall caricature of her hanging in their gym, with her every fault magnified for all to see. Even though it’d hurt, cut deeper than anything they’ve said to hurt each other; it’d be right, true, and the best, coldest, revenge Emily could get.

_Fuck_

It’s too late to turn back now, she’s through the gate, sandwiched between a silver Vauxhall and a green Peugeot that beeps it’s horn when she slows, accidentally caught up in the horror she’s imagined for herself. No, the horror that she’s brought upon herself.

***

It’s different here, at night, everything bathed in orange from the streetlights. The buildings are pitch black except for the bright florescent lights illuminating the rooms. Busier than the anticipated, there are teachers high-visibility vests, directing the cars into the last remaining spaces. She hops off her bike and locks it up in the nearest rack – she shakes the lock twice, out of habit. Head bowed, she marches up the steps, feeling for her ticket in her bag, joining the back of the line snaking towards the entrance. At the last second, when she’s fidgeting with nerves, stood behind a girl from her French class with bright, bright red hair – a few shades louder than Emily’s – does she think of trying something different, something a little braver, something that might just tip the balance in her favour. It feels like divine intervention.

Instead of scowling at Crispin when he looks up from his ticket desk, she smiles. She turns on her heels, and practically runs across the car park, heading for the steps outside the art rooms, on the off chance that the door might be open, and she can slip in, undetected, and avoid questions. Perhaps she’ll find Emily there, alone, putting the finishing touches to something, as she has so many times before. She’s never been alone like this though, peering through the glass. Effy’s always been with her, as it’s their unofficial smoking spot, and whenever they’ve waited for Emily, before they’d all wag last lesson and go off to the Fishponds, it was rarely her idea. She’d stressed time and time again to Effy that she wasn’t waiting _for_ Emily, but that was a paper thin lie, she realises now. Effy had to have seen through it, but she never said a word.

She checks one last time, scanning the room for the slightest sign, pressing her hands and nose to the glass, her breath fogging it instantly. There’s nothing. The room’s empty, save for the art supplies and paintings dotted everywhere, in various stages of completeness. Even though it was a long shot, her heart sinks just the same.

_Shit._

She sighs, walking down the steps to sit on the lowest one, shuddering against the cold as she rummages in her bag for her cigarettes. The packet’s crushed, and they’re all bent out of shape inside. The lighter sparks, but doesn’t quite catch enough to light the one that’s worth trying to smoke. She can’t help but think she’s lighting the touch paper between her and Emily instead, burning down the invisible tether that’s connected them for all these years. Whether tonight would be the death of them or the birth of something entirely different, she’s not sure. Once that tether was gone, would they just drift, aimlessly or cling to each other just the same?

Just a few minutes more. That’s all she needs, then she’ll be ready. Everything will be fine. It’ll be her last chance to breathe before it all starts, to get things straight in her head, chuckling to herself at the irony of the statement. Yes. by the time she and Emily cross paths, everything will be clear, and smoothly rehearsed. It’ll be perfect. She shakes the lighter vigorously and clicks it again, but it’s dead. She opens her bag and throws it in, hugging herself against the cold. Plain old oxygen would have to do.

Behind her, the door rattles and she stiffens instinctively, not daring to turn around. So much for her solitude.

“Oh, I didn’t think anyone else was out here,” the voice says. It seems vaguely familiar, but she can’t quite place it. All she does know is that it’s a boy, because she can their smell aftershave – the expensive kind – from here.

“Sorry to disappoint.”

She hasn’t made many friends yet, not really, and she feels that keenly now. her spiky, mistrustful, somewhat cold demeanour has earned her countless enemies – mostly girls, because she’s _unlike_ them in every way imaginable. She has a reputation for it now. Besides Effy, Cook, and well, Emily, if she could even be counted as a friend anymore. Freddie and JJ are just sort of there, she doesn’t know them very well, and hasn’t made that much of an effort to change that. Katie, by contrast, is someone she wishes she knew rather less well, but that would mean she’d never been introduced to Emily either.

“Naomi?” it’s cautious, disbelieving.

She turns then, slowly, oddly nervous, and sees Perry Robinson, Emily’s art friend, with his perfect hair and sideburns that they all swoon over. He’s two steps above her, stood there looking like fucking extra from an indie band, straight off an NME photoshoot, styled within an inch of his life, screaming metrosexuality in skinny fit _everything_ , and beaten up Converse that she imagines he’s purposefully worked on to make them look less new.

“She’ll be pleased you’ve come,” he says, smiling slightly, closing the gap between them, seemingly ignorant to the concept of personal space.

“Will she?” it’s out of her mouth before she realises.

“Of course!” he says, as he sits down next to her, searching his pockets for something, producing a lighter and cigarettes as if it’s some kind of magic trick.

She moves to her left a little, instinctively, and mutters, “I’m not so sure.”

Surprisingly, he doesn’t bite, as if he was expecting her to behave this way, perhaps. Or maybe he doesn’t know anything at all. If you give Emily a secret to keep, it’ll be buried with her, because she’s that loyal, that principled, but she’s never been able to keep her own safe. Nowhere runs deep enough. She’s a secret now. They are a secret. It makes everything that bit more dangerous. She eyes him suspiciously. He and Emily are close, but how much does he really know? She’s seen them, sometimes, coming out from lesson or from the canteen with coffees in their hands, laughing and joking together. She ignores the twinge of jealousy that sparks at the memory. Emily isn’t really the type to confess, but then, she’s pushed her further than she ever imagined she would. Anything is possible.

“Gonna light that then?” he holds up his lighter and gestures to the cigarette between her fingers.

She puts it between her lips, expectant. “Not going to give me the third degree then?” she regrets it as soon as she’s said it.

“Why would I do that?” he shrugs, playing along. He lights up, cupping the flame and offering it to her, leaning closer.

“You’re friends with Emily,” she counters, silently adding, ‘and I thought you’d kill me as soon as you saw me,’ while she takes a long, much-needed drag.

“Yeah,” he pauses, blows out a short plume of smoke, “and I just want to see her happy.” There’s a hint of anger in his voice. It unsettles her even though she expected it.

She feigns something halfway between innocence and nonchalance to combat it, “What’s that got to do with me?”

He throws her a look, snorts. “I know.”

“Know what?”

“I _know_ ,” he repeats, looking at her pointedly.

Her heart leaps immediately to her throat, and not in a good way. She remains silent, tries to keep it together, knowing her face is glowing with embarrassment, thankful that the orange-tinted darkness is just enough to hide it. She sucks too hard on her cigarette, hearing the rush of air come with it.

“I know about what happened. She told me.” he clarifies, running a hand through his hair with his free hand.

“She told you what, exactly?” she hisses, defensive.

That you’re as big a lezzer as Katie Fitch used to say. That you’re a coward. That you’re an emotionally-stunted, selfish prick?

He looks at her for a moment, as if deciding what’s best to say, “Well, I wasn’t that surprised. I’ve seen you together. It’s obvious.”

Her head whips round, suddenly on alert for people who might’ve heard. She wants to say something, to snap and bite, just like she did at home with her mum, but she’s tired. Tired of fighting with the world, with everyone, with herself. More than that, she’s far too scared of drawing attention to herself. She stares him down instead, jaw set, teeth gritted. If they were anywhere else, on any other day, she’d unleash the best she’s got. She can be especially cruel when she wants to be. Katie and her army of minions taught her that the hard way. She was strong by the end of it, before they came here, practiced in the art of malice. Impervious to whatever came back at her, or at least, she could pretend she was. What happened outside of school didn’t count. What they didn’t know couldn’t be used against her.

“I won’t tell anyone,” he continues, earnestly. “I wouldn’t do that. It’s not fair.”

She lets out a breath she didn’t know she was holding.

He glances away, and taps a column of ash off his cigarette, “I made her tell me. She didn’t want to. I found her crying her eyes out in the car park,” he gestures a few feet away from them, and then continues, speaking softer, “I’ve never seen her like that before.”

He doesn’t sound remotely vindictive, just sad, and it only serves to remind her what a complete fucking mess this is. Needlessly. He’s only looking out for Emily, being a friend. He’s taken care of her. He was there when she wasn’t. That hurts, in it’s own way, quite differently to the guilt she’s been consumed with. She can feel his eyes on her, watching for any kind of sign. A stab of pain hits her somewhere as she remembers Emily on the stairs, hunched, small, wracked with sobs. At first, she thinks it’s her heart, but it runs deeper than that somehow. Pursing her lips closed, she tries to focus on something else; willing for words to come so they can move the conversation along. Anything but more of this.

“I fucked up. I’m here to,” she tails off, searching for the right words, takes a short, desperate drag, “fix it.”

The answer is inadequate, like she’s broken a window or accidentally scratched someone’s car. It’d be right for anything other than breaking Emily’s heart, something that you can’t mend with paint, glue or a new pane of glass. Emily’s wounds, and hers, cut deep and will take much longer to heal.

“You fucked _her_ up, there’s a difference,” he throws down his cigarette and stamps hard to put it out, shoe scraping on the concrete. Her own burns dangerously close to her fingers. Then, he sighs, as if he wanted to say something else, but stopped himself because of who he’s talking to.

At that, she looks away again, she can’t stand it, feeling the enormity of her mistakes closing in on her. Where’s the fairytale ending when you need it? Where’s the guidebook that’s called How to Win Her Heart in Ten Easy Steps? If there were such a thing, she would’ve read it from cover to cover a thousand times over. Fuck, she’d even use one of those stupid Cosmo quizzes Katie places so much faith as a yardstick. Anything was better than fumbling around like this, feeling her way in pitch darkness, when Emily, the light in all this is so far away, so tiny, that she can barely be seen.

She doesn’t do this love stuff. She doesn’t do feelings, and this is why. It’s just too complicated.

“I know, and I know what a shitty person that makes me. I don’t need the lecture,” she’s so extraordinarily tired of being seen as the bad person, but that label’s her own fault, she keeps conforming to it. “Is she OK?” curiosity gets the better of her, and it comes out too fast.

If she’s honest with herself, and today seems the day for it, that question is the only thing she’s wanted to ask, even though she’s terrified of what the answer might be.

“She will be,” he replies, simply. It says everything and nothing. “You’re here, that counts.”

“Does it? What if it’s too late? What if she won’t listen to me? She probably hates me. I’ll be lucky if she doesn’t punch me in the face. I’m surprised you haven’t,” her reply comes out in one big rush.

She didn’t mean to say all of it, but she’s anxious for his answer, because of what it might mean. He knows more than he’s admitted to, that’s obvious, but she’s not sure whose feelings he’s trying to protect by holding back. He could be the one person who could help her get to Emily again, and at least get her to listen. She’s beyond expecting more than that now. The least she owes Emily is an apology, so if she can give her that, at least they can move on. What they’d be moving to, she doesn’t know.

“Luckily for you, violence isn’t really my thing,” he laughs, “and, she doesn’t hate you, Naomi. You know that, else you wouldn’t be here,” they share a look and it feels like they’re on the same side. “Come on, you can’t stay out here forever, it’s fucking freezing! Stop torturing yourself and talk to her,” he stands up, brushing his jeans off.

He’s right of course, and it just reinforces what her mum said. Even so, it doesn’t make it any easier.

She looks up at him, confused, “Why are you being nice to me?”

He smirks, shoving his hands in his pockets. “Because, despite your massive efforts to make me dislike you, Emily’s made me think differently.”

She turns, watching him as he sets off up the steps, mouthing a ‘thank you’ at his back, toying with saying it out loud. It seems ridiculous to just blurt it out. No, that’s what happens when she’s drunk and feeling overly sentimental, not for now, out of nowhere, when they’ve only really had one, albeit long conversation – what Emily’s said to him doesn’t count, because that’s between them, and she’d never pry. She shakes her head, springs up and follows Perry inside, ducking under his arm while he wedges the door open. Truth be told, she is genuinely grateful. The random kindness of people always surprises her.

Well, here it is. Now or never.

Words are the only way she’ll be able to soothe things, to begin the repairs, and she knows she’s terrible with those. Vocabulary she’s got; eloquence, on occasion, but she already knows that this will be the occasion to stall, stammer, and ultimately, stumble over whatever she manages to say.

Hopefully there’s enough between the pauses to make Emily realise how she feels.

***

It’s a lot busier inside the gym than she anticipated it being. Of course, she knew this whole thing was important to Emily, and everyone else in her class, but her fellow students weren’t known for their enthusiasm toward what would be termed ‘extra-curricular activities.’ In fact, most of them have trouble staying awake in lessons. She highly doubts that many of them are here in the name of art. It’s a sad reflection of their world that it’s probably the free drinks and ‘nibbles’ that brought them here instead. She’s never seen so many confused faces in her life, and that includes the people she assumes are their parents.

That sounds terrible, but it’s just a reflection of Roundview, and what it pretends to be versus what it actually is. She hovers by the door, watching Perry squeeze past clusters of people, toward, she assumes, Emily. She wants to go in with him, calm as you like, and ‘mingle’ just like you’re supposed to do at these things, but she can’t. Instead, she’s stood watching, like she has for most of her life, hovering near the door, shoe scuffing at its bright blue paint, stalling for time as she musters up the courage.

Fuck it. Come on.

When some lanky second year, wearing a cardigan and a pair of those ridiculous thick-rimmed retro glasses everyone has slips out to answer his phone, she takes her chance, and squeezes through the gap before the door closes fully. She’s here, she’s in. It’s only marginally less terrifying. There’s pockets of chatter everywhere. The thickness of the doors deadened it to a degree, but now she’s in the middle of it, she can barely hear herself think, never mind make herself heard. The place has been decorated for the evening, presumably by other students, made to look like a linen marquee you’d see in some high-end interior magazine or featured at some obnoxious Z-List celebrity wedding. It diffuses the harshness of the overhead lighting a little, and there are spotlight dotted around, illuminating specific pieces. She’s loathe to say it because it’s so _obviously_ put on – she’s never seen the gym this tidy since their induction – but it looks quite classy, almost like a real gallery. There are even students dressed up like waiters walking round with silver trays of food and drink.

She wanders round, adjusting to the noise and looking for a familiar face. Perry’s disappeared entirely, and she’s never seen most of these people before, but that’s nothing new. She’s selective, keeps to herself for good reason. A year from now, she won’t even care that she didn’t know their names and she didn’t know there’s. Callous perhaps, but that’s the way life works. Some people drift in and out, forever on the periphery, there, but not there; and others, like Emily, are always there, in direct line of sight. There are lots of faces she doesn’t recognise, and a couple she does. Doug is in the thick of it, chatting with clusters of parents. Working the rest of the room, is Emily’s teacher, Greg, surgically removed from his polo neck for the occasion, it seems. He’s holding court, speaking animatedly with the groups gathered around the installations that take up the entire back wall: heads on tiny bodies, misshapen, hunched, and decidedly alien; a block of motorised eyes, blinking with menace and creepy as fuck. It’s hard to imagine where Emily’s work might fit into all this. She hasn’t dared to look properly for her yet, or indeed, the famed – or should that be infamous? – painting, but she’s scared what she’ll find if she looks too closely.

Looking, that’s all people seem to keep doing. She’s had more people glance at her in the space of ten minutes than she has all year. The boys have wink at her or throw her some inane little grin, and the girls? Well, death glares all the way. Some things never change. It might be the outfit, it’s probably the outfit, because she’s not exactly known for her fashion choices. Oh, of course, the painting. The _naked_ painting. Everyone in this room has seen her naked.

Oh fucking hell.

It’d be nice if the floor would swallow her up now.

She regrets this afternoon’s cider binge for an entirely different reason now. It’s pathetic to _need_ a drink to get herself through this, but she’s never been great at big social occasions, and something tells her that some achingly neon orange juice in a plastic flute is going to do nothing to settle her nerves, and give her sugar high jitters instead. Still, she takes one when a girl – one of the Beauty girls, out of her uniform, annoyingly immaculate – walks past. It’ll keep her hands busy if nothing else. The girl goes over to another group of students, clustered around a piece that looks halfway between a Banksy and a Picasso, only, much less accomplished. Craning to see, she thinks she spots a flash of red, cherry, Emily red. Her heart speeds up, and she toys with moving closer. When the girl turns to talk to someone, face revealed, her hopes are dashed, because it’s not Emily, it’s not even Katie. It’s just some random girl who happens to have the same hair colour. Now she feels like a complete fucking idiot, because she can’t even spot Emily in a crowd of any real size. Emily could find her, she bets, even with the multitude of blondes that stalk their corridors.

It’s not the first time she’s been tricked like that, but it doesn’t hurt any less. mouth suddenly dry, she downs the orange in one to distract herself, shuddering at the taste – sickly, chemically-modified sweetness. Vile.

***

Emily. She needs to focus. The quicker she can find her, the quicker this can end, or, begin. She moves with more purpose now, stopping every so often so it looks like she’s interested in the other work on display. It gives her something else to focus on, so she doesn’t look a massive fucking loser who is well and truly beyond the boundaries of her comfort zone. She leans back against the wall, grabbing another drink when another tray is put under her nose. Water this time, she won’t make that mistake twice. No Emily yet. The only familiar faces are Cook, stood filling his pockets with as many canapés as he can fit, while chatting up one of the waitress girls. Typical. She spots JJ next, the only one who seems genuinely interested in all this. He’s talking animatedly to a boy she vaguely recalls from their English class, as they both look at his drawings. Of course _he’s_ interested, he obviously still thinks he’s in with a chance with Emily, and he’s trying to score brownie points. Envy laced with guilt rushes her immediately, because isn’t that exactly what she’s doing? Then, she spots Effy on the fringe of it all, looking thoroughly bored glass in hand, filled with something that’s possibly alcoholic; being talked at by some twat from the football team; their captain, she recalls, with a shudder.

There’s a flicker of recognition, and Effy smiles at her. She takes it as an opportunity to shift vantage points and rescue her into the bargain. Not that she really needs it,  
in all honesty, Effy could’ve despatched the moron with a well-timed put-down, so maybe she’s the one being rescued? As soon as she gets closer, the boy moves away, as if she’s wearing some sort of repellent. It’s fucking fabulous. Effy’s well shot of him, given that he has a significantly skewed gel to brains ratio going on, and that’s _never_ a good basis for a relationship in her book. Not if you prize good conversation, anyway. Pretty people can be spectacularly boring.

“Nicely done,” Effy comments as her hello.

“I tend to have that effect on people, I thought I’d put it to good use,” she shrugs, ignoring the twinge of pain that comes with the admission.

It’s a relief to have some company, even though she’s only travelled thirty-odd steps to get it. Not that she’d ever say so. She and Effy aren’t prone to public displays of affection. Public displays of wit, or biting social commentary perhaps, but never affection.

“You’re here then.”

They sip on their drinks, not looking at each other, resting against a pillar.

“I am,” she replies, playing along, and then, after a moment, “You’re surprised I even came, aren’t you?”

Effy smiles, calm. Resolute. “No, I knew you’d come, it was just a matter of when.”

She rolls her eyes, annoyed, because Effy pulling her mystery routine fucks her off sometimes, particularly when it’s directed at her. It makes her feel like she’s a puppet, and her strings are being pulled. Like all of this has been planned without her consent, and she hates not having control, even if its fleeting, and her grip is never sure. When she turns back to Effy again, she’s regarding her in the same, curious way as before.

“What?” she asks, perturbed by the attention.

“Nothing. Nothing. It’s just, well,” Effy pauses, gesturing toward her outfit with her empty glass, a smile spreading across her face. “This. It’s nice. Anyone would think you actually care about her. You should stop that now, you’ll have people jumping to conclusions.”

She looks down at herself, feeling embarrassed, and a little overdressed. Effy’s slightly more made-up than usual, but it’s not unlike how she dresses for college sometimes. Most people hadn’t even bothered to change from what they were wearing earlier in the day.

Effy gets her patented glare and a middle finger in lieu of a reply.

“It’s a compliment!” she exclaims, clutching a hand to her chest in faux shock. “Take it. I don’t give them out often, you know!” she smiles, and then continues, looking disturbingly sincere when she says, “She’ll like it.”

She just glares at her then, mouth gaping slightly before she recovers, “Don’t.”

“What? There’s no need to be embarrassed,” Effy touches her arm briefly, and she’s officially freaked out. She’s only seen her this kind when she’s drunk. Make that _very_ drunk. It’s disconcerting. “And, you’re looking the wrong way, she’s over there,” she continues, gesturing to her right.

Fuck. She came in the wrong entrance.

Now that people have started to move in different directions, crowding around other pieces, she sees something she couldn’t before. It’s drawing the biggest number of onlookers, and Greg is right at the front, gesticulating wildly. She still can’t see what it actually is until Perry breaks away from the group, and the penny drops.

_Fucking hell._

“Oh God, that’s it, isn’t it?”

“Yep,” Effy replies, typically noncommittal.

“And?” she asks, a little too quickly.

Effy turns to her, grinning. “Curious are we?”

“Just, I don’t know … prepare me?”

She’s searching almost frantically now for Emily, cursing that she’s so small and everyone else is twice her size. Her stomach drops a little when she catches sight of Rob, in full proud parent mode, more dressed up than he’s been on the few occasions she’s seen him before – his shirt’s so loud it has to be a present from Katie. On his other side is Katie, in full on glamour mode – her dress is more like a belt, as usual – as if she’s at a nightclub, standing with a possessive arm around Freddie’s waist, clinging on. Even he’s dressed a little smarter than usual, in a proper shirt. It’s obvious Katie’s been on his case and he’s been groomed to within an inch of his life for his first meeting with Rob.

“Are you actually worried? Naomi ‘I don’t care what everyone thinks’ Campbell is worried about a painting?!”

Effy’s words go over her head completely, her attention caught when the group shifts again, and suddenly, Emily is revealed. Everything seems to slow. She looks beautiful. Entirely different from the last time they saw each other, with her hair in pin curls and one of those printed little dresses, black with cherries all over it, and red heels that match her hair, like some 1950s pin-up. She lets out a long, shaky breath as she takes her in. Perry leans close to her, and he makes her laugh. Her whole face lights up, and she realises she’s never seen her look that happy before. Then, he puts his hand on the small of her back, and it’s so comfortable and intimate, she doesn’t know where to look. She remembers her own hands there, nervously caressing. Cook’s hands too, when he kissed Emily at the party. Jealousy fires up, burning through her hard and fast at the memory.

She’s given Emily up. Given away the chance to be with, and to be, Emily’s like that, as if it meant nothing when it really meant, _means_ everything to her. She wants that completeness back; that complete feeling of rightness she felt that night she shared with Emily. There’s been something missing ever since, and now, it feels like she can never get it back. She can’t stand it. She can’t be here. She can’t do this. It was stupid of her to even try. Part of her wants so badly to stand where Perry is, to be that person Emily laughs with, who gets to be there alongside her family and be that important person in her life, but a bigger part of her is terrified that she’ll never be able to fit into that mould; that she’ll never be accepted.

“Yes. Happy now?” she snaps, tearing herself away, shaken by it.

“Ecstatic. We’re making progress at last!” Effy nudges her, knowingly, before leaning closer, and whispering, “You know, you could be quite radical, and, maybe go over there and actually look at it. Or, even, I don’t know, _talk_ to her instead of hiding over here with me, and driving yourself mad with jealousy.”

Effy’s sussed her completely, and now she’s cornered, with no chance of escape. Her immediate thought is to leg it, as far and as fast as she can, but that would attract more attention than staying.

“I’m _not_ hiding, and there’s fuck all to be jealous of!” it comes out snappy, defensive, and slightly too loud, and a group of parents nearby turn and look disapprovingly. She glares in return.

“You’re a shit liar,” Effy comments, with a shake of her head. Just get over there!” Effy makes it sound like the easiest thing in the world. “Don’t make me drag you!”

“You wouldn’t dare,” she scoffs.

“Don’t dare a Stonem,” Effy says, with a mischievous glint in her eye, as she turns her by the shoulders and pushes her forward.

She stumbles over her words, suddenly feeling very exposed, “Eff, no, wait. I can’t, I’m not –”

“Yes. Yes you are,” Effy reassures, and shoos her further on, taking her empty glass from her hand, with one hand, and her bag with the other.

Reluctantly, she turns away, feeling her safety slip with it. Forty steps. Less, and she’ll be face to face with Emily again, in front of her painting. With everyone watching her, literally, it’s going to be fifteen kinds of awkward, because she’ll have to be nice to Katie and put on her best Polite Parent voice for Rob, even though it’s a massive fucking lie and Emily will see straight though it.

***

Hovering on the edge of the group, she can still feel Effy’s eyes on her back. Though closer, she can’t quite see the painting fully, there are too many people in the way. Buoyed by curiosity, she moves forward slightly, but it’s not that much clearer; all she can see are fragments, the start of lines, shapes, things that don’t look like anything really. Things that don’t look anything like _her_.

Swerving a little to the side, she looks at the other work Emily’s chosen to exhibit instead, easing herself into the main event. That’s easier, and safer for the moment. There’s the final version of the ballerina girl sketch she saw on the day they collided with each other in the corridor; and a triptych of the view from Brandon Hill at night. They’re both rendered heavily in dark hues, with chalk and charcoal, constructed from different types of paper that are torn and collaged together. It must’ve taken her hours, days. What really stands out, are the ballerina’s dress, coloured in a blazing candy pink, and the lights from the blocks of flats and the buildings that glow and shimmer. They’re mesmerising. Real and unreal at once.

_Wow._

There’s lots of nodding and whispering going on around her, and she suddenly feels other eyes on her again, growing hot under their attention, wondering if it’s her or the work they’re discussing. She stays low, camouflaging herself, listening in. It’s pathetic that she’s behaving like this – selfish, paranoid, weak. Her volleys of bravery don’t last, they never really have, but then, no one has really tested it like Emily does. This is too important to fuck up and it’s making her even more guarded than usual. She’s not brave enough to announce herself and let them have it like she normally would, there’s too much at stake. She’ll be strong when she needs to be, if she can ever get Emily alone again.

***

Greg’s still talking, stood a little away from her with Emily who’s flanked by Perry and Rob. For once, it sounds like Greg’s excitement is genuine. His face is alight with joy, as if he’s discovered something, someone, incredibly important. It’s what she’s always known, deep down: that Emily is much more, _so_ much more than Katie Fitch’s sweet, shy, twin sister.

“This, this, is exactly what I was talking about, Emily! I knew you had it in you!” Greg exclaims, practically bursting with enthusiasm. He shakes her excitedly by the shoulders, and she dips her head, embarrassed. “I knew it!” he repeats, louder still.

“It’s erm, it’s very good, love,” Rob offers, slightly awkward, but full of warmth, rocking back on his heels, seeming to consider it some more. “Interesting.”

“I told you,” Perry says reassuringly, and Emily smiles shyly back.

She should be the one standing there, bolstering Emily’s confidence, supporting her, instead of skulking in the corner like an uninvited guest. Katie’s voice interrupts her thoughts, and she finds her in the crowd, talking away to Freddie. She tenses. Maybe it’s habit, maybe it’s reflex, she’s not sure anymore.

“I still can’t believe she’s naked. What’s Emily think she’s doing? It’s like she _wants_ people to think she’s a freak!” she exclaims, glancing up and looking at the painting again.

The disgust on her face is evident. She knows why. She and Emily are linked in Katie’s mind, and she despises it, because it means there’s a part of Emily’s life she’s not privy to, and never will be. Emily being gay means there’s something different about them. Once everyone else knows that too, no matter how hard Katie tries, they can never _just_ be the Fitch twins, and she’ll never be able to force Emily back into that mould again. They’ll be seen as separate people for the first time in their lives. Maybe that’s what terrifies Katie so much? Deep down, they both fear the same thing: losing Emily. She doesn’t want this to be a battle, but it will be, whether she chooses to try and be Emily’s friend or try for something more. She’s carried that fear, weighty and deep-seated for a while. It’s part of her now, and yet sometimes, the very threat of it happening is suffocating.

Empathising with someone she hates is … odd.

“Babe, it’s just a painting,” Freddie shrugs, glancing at it. “I think it’s nice.”

“Ugh, you _would!_ ” Katie makes a face, shoving Freddie in the chest.

She smiles, despite herself, because, even though her feelings toward Katie are sort of, shifting, it’s still funny to see her get so wound up over nothing. Maybe Freddie was just being nice, saying what’s expected, but she’ll take it, relieved to learn that she doesn’t look hideous. Emily’s been kind then, it seems, and she feels bad for thinking any differently. Vindictiveness isn’t really Emily’s strong suit, even if she does deserve it.

Just when it looks like Katie’s about to launch into something else, Greg cuts her off, “Life drawing’s are primarily nudes, Katie,” he offers, helpfully, equal parts authoritative and condescending. “It’s about capturing the person, their essence. We aren’t talking page three glamour.”

Katie glowers, itching to say something, but Freddie leans down, whispers in her ear, and she huffs, obviously tolerating all this for Emily’s sake.

Greg turns back to Emily again, “What’s here, what you’ve created… the lines, the fluidity,” he gestures upwards, indicating something. She struggles to see, but eventually, a gap opens up, and more is revealed – the curve of her back, bare, skin shaded perfectly.

Her breath stalls in her lungs.

“There’s such an energy,” Greg continues, shaking his head and rubbing at his stubble thoughtfully. “It’s really quite extraordinary. Hogarth would be proud, beauty indeed.”

Hogarth. She wracks her brain, churning through names, trying to make the connection, and then it clicks. William Hogarth, the line of beauty. _That’s_ what Emily meant. She can almost feel her fingertips there again, tracing the shape, whispering the words.

***

“Well, well, well!” a familiar voice comments, all too loudly, to her left, and an arm pulls her uncomfortably close.

It’s Cook, with a ridiculous grin plastered on his face. A ‘I’ve seen you naked now’ grin. Why him? Why now? Any other day she’d be up for his banter, because when he’s not being an annoying fucker, he’s actually quite good fun, but she’s not in the mood for games.

“Erm, do you mind?!” she hisses, trying to free herself from his grip.

“No Naomikins, I don’t, if only I knew that’s what was goin’ on under there, eh?” he looks her up and down, lingering here and there. She swallows hard, self-conscious, more used to being the girl people avoid than the girl people look at. “I would’ve been a bit more persistent.”

“Fuck off, Cook!”

“Temptin’ but no,” he grins, revelling in it, because knows it winds her up. “Offer’s still open, anytime,” he winks, gesturing towards himself with his free hand.

“I said …” she’s getting louder without meaning to,“Fuck. Off!”

Twenty or so heads swivel in her direction, and suddenly, her heart is pounding for an entirely different reason.

“You made it, fantastic! Woman of the hour!” Greg beams. He’s either managed to somehow _not_ hear the loudest exchange she and Cook have ever had, or he’s playing along and attempting to calm the situation down. “Come on, come and see!” he beckons. “Don’t be shy!”

Cook cheers, letting go of her at last and waving her forward, “Yeah, go on, Naomikins!”

She gets a few death glares and a bit of tutting as she moves goes, but the group parts to let her through. Greg’s not satisfied with that though, and drags her right to the front before she can so much as glance at the painting. It feels like she’s being paraded, like a glamorous prize on a game show, or a medal-winning show pony of some kind. She and Emily are nearly within touching distance now.

The pounding of her heart is deafening.

“Let’s get a picture!” Doug exclaims, popping up out of nowhere.

“Why not, one for the newspaper, hmm?” Greg agrees, glancing at her quickly.

Roundview has a newspaper?

She tries not to gape at his request, and it takes all her will not to run. The only thing keeping her there is an unsubtly firm hand on her shoulder. Emily’s just as reluctant, and it takes some gentle persuasion from Perry and Rob to get her to come up. As she passes to stand beside Greg, Emily catches her eye, and for the briefest of moments, holds her gaze. It’s like there’s no one else but her in the room. The relief she feels is short-lived. For the first time since they met, she’s not sure what she sees. Maybe there was a flash of anger, a twist of jealousy or the ache of sorrow. No, the burden of guilt, perhaps the briefest flush of love, despite everything. What’s more likely – what she’s feared – is that she can’t decipher it because there’s nothing there to see.

Before she realises what’s happening, there’s some kid with a Nikon in her face, snapping away at lightning speed. The flash from the camera blinds her, and she has to remember to smile. It’s her practiced, fake smile, that she reserves for moments like these. When she tries to move, Greg holds her back again, with a “just a few more” and before she realises what’s happening, Rob and Katie are added to the mix, Freddie dragged in by Katie to balance up the picture, pressing everyone closer together. Her panic hits a whole new level, and she’s beginning to wonder if there’s actually any air entering her lungs, because she has that same, light feeling as when drunkenness trickles into her consciousness. She thinks about those pictures; frozen little moments, and wonders how they’ll be remembered, years from now. If any of it will even matter. If Emily will remember her at all when she finds the newspaper hidden amongst other things discarded long ago, thick with dust. The flashes stop, and she relaxes, briefly. There’s a weak smattering of applause.

Stop. Fucking stop. _Please_.

***

The group has started to disperse now, but Rob, Katie, and the others are still hanging around. She feels slightly easier, because the focus seems to have shifted from her to other people. Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad after all. Sally was always telling her that the fear of something happening is always greater than the event itself. Hopefully, she’ll be able to get through the rest of the night without too much drama.

Greg’s off somewhere else after showering Emily with yet more praise, mapping out her future with promises of meetings about portfolios and applying to art schools in London. Whenever she’s thought about the future, about how little time they actually have at Roundview, she’s never thought about leaving Emily behind in real, concrete terms. Not so long ago, leaving wouldn’t have been so much of a wrench. All she had before were memories, bits and pieces of conversations, but now, after sharing so much more than that, she can’t even push her mind toward imagining it. They’ve known each other such a short time, on the face of it, not even six years, but when she thinks of it another way – that it’s almost a third of her whole life, it feels more accurate and justifies the depth of her feelings.

“Alright Naomi?” Rob asks, gently, pulling her from her thoughts. Behind him, she sees Emily watching them as she stands talking with JJ and the others. It throws her for a second, because she almost looks pleased.

“Fine thanks, Mr Fitch,” she responds, politely.

When she was small, people would always tell her mum what a polite, sweet-natured child she was, exactly the kind of girl they wanted their daughters to be friends with. The kind of girl they always invited for tea or to stay the night. Sometimes she wonders what the hell happened between then and now.

“Mr Fitch?” he chuckles. “Oh God, please call me Rob.”

“Sorry,” she replies automatically, embarrassed, wondering if it’s for the slip-up or everything else.

If he knows, he’s being remarkably calm, but then, Emily can do that too. It’s deceptive and terrifying to watch unfold, because she’s calm and quiet for the sake of appearances, and the complete opposite once people are out of earshot. It wouldn’t take much for a nice little walk to turn into a frogmarch off the premises, topped off by a stern warning to leave Emily alone once they make it out the door. She shudders at the thought.

“Bit, erm, _much_ , all this, isn’t it?” he comments, looking rather nervous as he takes in the room, sipping on his drink.

“Yeah!” she smiles a little. “I didn’t expect it to be quite this big an event.”

Oh, if only he knew.

“Me either,” he shrugs. “She’s a talented girl, my Emsy,” he looks toward Emily and beams, bursting with fatherly pride. A twinge of sadness sparks up somewhere. She’s never had that, never will. Her own dad is just a photograph, dog-eared and fading, that she keeps out of sight in a drawer. “Have you had a chance to look at it?” he asks, turning to gesture toward the painting. She’d stupidly forgotten it was there.

“Oh,” she tucks her hair behind her ear out of habit, “actually, no, I haven’t.”

“You can’t very well miss it, but I’m sure this a _lot_ more embarrassing for you than it is for me!” he pats her on the shoulder, smiling awkwardly. “Looks like someone wants the final critique,” he continues, nodding his head, and she follows his eyeline, seeing Emily coming toward them. “I’ll leave girls you to it.”

 _Fuck_.

***

If they could find somewhere quiet maybe, away from everyone else, they might stand a chance, a very slim chance, but a chance nonetheless. A locked room, Kieran’s room; or they could get stuck in the lift by Harriet’s office that only ever works when it feels like it. Considering things like this, desperate, stupid things? Now she’s just being ridiculous. It’s just Emily. It shouldn’t be this difficult. Why can’t she just do it? Just apologise and say everything? Maybe because when she confesses love, there will be no stirring strings and applause. It’ll be deathly silence and slow-clapping before Katie fires off some insult.

Not now. She can’t.

It seems to take Emily forever to cross the space between them. Her stomach drops. All she can manage is a tight smile, because it’s happening. Everything that tonight was meant to be about is unfolding right before her eyes, and the sentences she’s created, rehearsed, over and over just fly out of her head. Her throat closes up at around the same time the room begins to feel much, much smaller. By the time they’re standing opposite each other, a respectable few steps apart, the room feels no bigger than a cardboard box. Automatically, she readies herself, attempting to brace herself for what might come: anger, coldness or kindness – she’s craved the latter to the point of aching – she so often receives from her, unprompted, and until recently at least, limitless.

It’s Emily who speaks first.

“Hi,” her voice is small, raspy and ragged, clearly still sore from their earlier argument.

She replies awkwardly, tongue tripping over the words, looking anywhere at Emily, “Emily, I, look … I should’ve –”

Emily shakes her head, cuts her off, “Don’t worry, I won’t kill you. Too many witnesses,” a flicker of a smile shows on her face.

She nods, tries to cloak her relief, but it’s immediate, and almost overwhelming.

After a moment of hesitation, Emily comes closer and turns toward the painting, “So, what do you think?”

She doesn’t need her to say anything else. Slowly, she turns too, tense with anticipation and perhaps a little dread. It takes her a few moments to adjust, eyes darting across the canvas to take in what she’s seeing, because her brain’s still caught up in the fact she’s _going_ to see it, and hasn’t realised she actually is. Then, she grasps it, or begins to. Compared to Emily’s other pieces, it’s lighter, brighter, and more traditional in style. There’s a warmth that goes against the black, white and hues of grey she’s used. It’s softened edges make it look like a dream. Now she understands why Greg likes it so much. It has the same vibrancy of her other sketches, and that’s what she liked when she saw her work for the first time. She even wondered – briefly – about asking her if she could keep one of them, but she stopped herself.

Emily’s rendered everything in such fine detail, that it almost like looking at a photograph, but it’s more than that too. All of the anger, the sharpness, and the sadness she sees when she looks at her reflection is gone. It’s who she could be, if she stopping fighting so hard. The pose is different from what she remembers Emily asking her to keep. Her body is almost entirely exposed, curled within twisted sheets, with her hands flat on the mattress, reaching for something, for someone. The longing is palpable. She imagines Emily sitting in that little chair, sketching away at some strange hour, watching her silent, sleeping form. She didn’t stir once that night, and that peacefulness shows in the relaxed look on her face, and it suddenly dawns on her what Emily’s captured; what must have made her get up and try to sketch in the first place: serenity. Bliss. An unexpected glimpse of freedom. That’s why she can’t quite tear herself away from it, because it’s something she’s rarely felt. Except, for, well, that night.

“It’s … beautiful,” she replies, in awe, shaking her head. “Just beautiful,” she echoes, stealing a glance in Emily’s direction, seeing her smile shyly back.

“Thanks,” Emily replies, cautious and guarded, “I had a good model.”

She’s not sure what to say next, or even if there’s anything she _can_ say that comes close to how finally seeing it is making her feel. She feels like hugging her, then and there, not giving a fuck who sees, because all this is all so different from what she thought. Unsurprisingly, she comes up with nothing, and can only shake her head, exhaling a long breath. In that breath, the tension she’s been carrying all this time, weighing her down, trapped in her muscles, in her bones, begins to dissolve.

Curious to see it up close, she steps forward, her fingertips near the canvas, ghosting its shapes. She holds back from touching it, even though she wants to, for fear of spoiling it, or have it turn out to be a mirage. Emily’s in there too. Memories of that night comes back to her in fits and starts; fragments of images: Emily hands on her, or her hands on Emily, stroking skin; fingertips trailing and clawing. Every whisper, every pause, every kiss – some light, some not so. It’s all there. Deep down, she’s always known how Emily feels, and that knowledge has made everything harder, but, seeing those feelings, between the light and shade, hidden in their depth, is another thing entirely. She understands. Finally.

Love is there. It’s in every carefully placed line for all to see.

***

Near the lower half of the canvas, where Emily’s signed her initials with an elegant flourish, something else catches her eye: the notes underneath the painting. All the pieces in the exhibition have them, typed and matted on black card, explaining what their piece is about who they’re influenced by. She’d given a cursory glance to some of them, scoffed, and rolled her eyes at their pretentiousness, but what Emily’s written is different. There, in the neat handwriting she’s come to know so well, isn’t an explanation in common terms. Yes, it explains her painting, explains the ‘why’ of it all, but, like everything Emily does, there’s something more to it that goes deeper. It actually means something. It actually means something to _her_ :

_“Perfection is finally attained not when there is no longer anything to add but when there is no longer anything to take away, when a body has been stripped down to its nakedness” – Antoine de Saint-Exupery._

She reads it through a few times, the enormity of it settling as she feels Emily come closer, hearing the soft tap of her heels and her smell of her perfume – rich, heady, sweet, and unmistakably her. She wants to speak; make a comment of some kind, but nothing will come out, not yet. The choice isn’t arbitrary, she has a collection of his writings with their own section on her bookshelf. She told Emily, while they talked that night, lying on her floor, heads looking up at the ceiling, that The Little Prince was her favourite book as a child (a fucking cliché, she knows, but it’s the truth); that her battered copies of Night Flight and Wind, Sand, and Stars were amongst the few things left behind by her dad, and they’re one of the reasons why she loves to travel (both were secrets of a kind, both shared a little too freely once the wine had loosened her tongue). She knows these words by heart; they’re engrained into her consciousness, and their presence trips off something Emily chose not to include, ‘delivering the image from its prison.’

That’s exactly what Emily’s done for her. All this time, she thought Emily was caging her in, when really, she was freeing her. Freeing her feelings. Saving her from herself. Emily sees her, entirely, but that’s not really surprising, it’s always felt like she could look further and deeper than anyone else. When she looks back at the painting again, she feels differently. The girl, woman, she sees is vulnerable, but there’s something powerful and sensual about her too. It’s like looking at herself for the first time; brand new, without seventeen years of baggage to weigh her down.

“Is that really what …?” she asks in a quiet voice.

“Yeah.”

“I’m not perfect,” she replies, all too aware of how true that is.

“No,” Emily says, somewhat sadly, “you’re not. No one is.”

She resists the urge to say ‘you are’ because it would sound horribly trite, but also because saying things like that means giving away far too much far too early.

They lapse into silence again.

Emily looks down at her hands, thumb playing with the ring on her index finger. “I was trying to say that, you’re perfect when you let yourself go,” she pauses, takes a breath and looks back at her, “When, you let yourself be who you are.”

She struggles for a response, wetting her dry lips, turning over things like ‘it’s hard sometimes,’ ‘I don’t know who that is’ and ‘you terrify me,’ but they get tangled up in the journey from her brain to her mouth. It feels like she’s choking on the words, even though she’s so very close to saying them out loud. It makes her ache somewhere. Everywhere, but it’s not painful. For the first time, it doesn’t feel like she’s shattering, bone-by-bone; body collapsing in on itself, as fragile as a house of cards. Hours ago, under the spray of the too-hot shower, it felt exactly like that, and no matter how long she stood there, the pain wouldn’t wash away. It’s something else entirely.

“I don’t know …” she begins and then stops herself, frustrated. “I need … we need to talk.”

“Not here,” Emily replies, lowering her voice. “I don’t want everyone hearing.”

Emily is closer than she thought, and as she turns to face her, needing to look at her properly – praying that Emily will see all she needs to – their fingertips brush accidentally, and Emily is looking at her with a longing she hasn’t seen since that night. Their hands touch again, deliberately this time; once, twice, and it’s just like in the classroom when they watched Hamlet. It feels just as charged, just as dangerous – her pulse quickens, 60-40 excitement and fear – but just as right. She’s missed Emily’s touch. Needed it. For a moment, no one else exists, and nothing else matters.

They could do anything. They could be anything. Together.

“Yeah … it’s … your dad, Katie … everything.”

“I thought about, phoning … coming over, maybe, but then it was too late,” Emily pauses, as if reflecting. “I wanted to find you before all this started, and when I did, you were with Effy, and so –” she stops short.

“I planned things to say but, well. You know, nothing felt –”

“It’s OK.”

Her breath hitches, the same way it always does when Emily says those words, in her sweet, soft, voice that sounds like anyone could say anything to her right this second, and they’d be forgiven. They keep touching, unnecessarily, as they talk in hushed tones. They don’t have to be any louder.

“I’m sorry,” she means it, truly, for the first time in her life.

“I know.” Emily says, an air of sadness in her voice, “Me too,” and then, the dulled edge of anger, “I’m still fucking angry at you.”

“I know. I’m angry at me too.”

There’s no pulling away this time, no constantly looking round for who might be watching. Their fingers curl, as if to link fully, but not. Then, it’s not just their hands touching, they’re growing braver, the mass of people and their hubbub of noise is hiding them. She traces across Emily’s wrist with two fingers, following the curve of her bracelet as it dangles idly, and the pad of Emily’s index finger trails up the inside of her wrist, stopping on the pulse point. Measuring. She lets herself smile, the mouth curving barely. The longer it goes on, the more comfortable she feels.

She pretends to look at the painting, really just staring toward the canvas, the details blur. Emily’s hand slides fully over hers, and briefly, she thinks she’s going to lead her away, so they can escape from all this and just … be. That’s all she’s ever wanted, really. It’s taken her much too long to realise that. How could she have been so fucking stupid? So thoughtless? So cruel? She’s wasted, she’s wasting so much time, and yet, she’s felt powerless to stop it. Little by little, it’s like they’re repairing as they stand there. Their fractured selves are healing, and their connection is slowly reshaping to form a bond that’s new, different, stronger.

When Emily’s hand slips away again, she reaches for it, clasping – so quick, she almost misses – ready to turn her back on all of these people and just go, put some distance between them and this college and its stupid fucking narrow-minded people. A plan blooms in her mind; snowballing in seconds: they could get away, even a little way out of Bristol, and it’d be better. Maybe they could borrow Effy’s car? Yes. They could just sit and talk, no interruptions, and they’d talk, and Emily would know the truth. No holding back.

“Let’s go,” she breathes, barely loud enough at all.

Her heart jumps to her throat once more, and her hands feel clammy, betraying her. Emily’s eyes widen as she registers the request, and she opens her mouth to reply, but then, as clear as anything, breaking the spell, comes a different, but familiar voice. It drifts in from her right, laced with malice, “It’s nice to see you giving a fuck for once, Campbell.”

Katie.

_Shit_

It’s Emily’s hand the moves away this time, quickly, as if burned. She tenses immediately, wondering what Katie’s seen or heard. Ready for battle, and gives her patented glare.

“Took you long enough,” she continues, looking her up and down contemptuously. It’s the outfit she cares about, or, she’s feigning caring about.

Of _fucking_ course. ‘Katie Fitch, shallow bitch’ wasn’t her unofficial moniker at school for nothing.

For a second or two, she’s relieved, because bitching she can take, bitching is ordinary service. If Katie _wasn’t_ doing that, then she’d be nervous, but what if she’s just lulling her into a false sense of security and waiting for the perfect – read least opportune – moment to strike? It wouldn’t be the first time.

“Katie!” Emily exclaims, half warning, half tired appeal.

“Oh, that’s right, defend _her_ ” Katie spits out, jabbing her finger accusingly.

“Well, you know me, slow on the uptake,” she pauses for effect, and Katie looks momentarily smug. She can’t resist baiting her. “I didn’t know there was a theme for tonight. Slags and former WAGs, is it?” her voice rises, thick with sarcasm, as anger coils afresh in her stomach. It’s an easy shot, tactless, and might cost her, in the end. She closes the gap between them, facing her down. She’s trained now. Hardened to whatever Katie dares to dole out.

“Naomi …” Emily pleads, as she moves in front of them, going into peacemaker mode.

Nearby, people have started to look, and their section of the gym has suddenly gotten even more interesting. They whisper between themselves, intrigued. Sensing a fight. Phones are out, with texts going off, cameras recording. It’ll probably be all over youtube within seconds. She couldn’t care less. She glances at Emily quickly, seeing a nervous, fearful girl look back. For her sake, and her sake only, she takes a breath, and steps back. They should be over this juvenile bollocks really, but Katie knows what buttons to push, and where to hit to make sure it hurts.

Just then, She sees Effy standing at the back of their little crowd. The only real friendly face. Effy wouldn’t be doing the saving this time though, it’s down to her. When she looks back. Effy’s gone.

“Bitch!” Katie snaps, ignoring Emily completely.

You’re really testing my fucking patience, Fitch.

She steps closer again – a little too close for Katie’s comfort, because she leans back – and extorts the extra inches of height she didn’t have when they were younger. “Like you always say, takes one to know one.”

Katie explodes. “Who the _fuck_ do you think you are!?”

From somewhere behind them, Freddie tries to reason with her, clearly irritated, “Katie, just leave it, yeah? It’s Emily’s night. Don’t start.”

Katie turns and glares. He doesn’t say anything more. “Why are you even here?” she asks, looking at her with a disgust no one else can match. “Who invited you anyway?”

“I did!” Emily answers, with a delicious relish.

It tips Katie over the edge. “Why? Jesus fucking Christ Emily!”

“Because she’s the fucking model, you idiot!” Emily comments, deadpan.

She stifles a laugh, secretly loving it when Emily stands up to her sister even the tiniest bit.

“She treats you like shit, I don’t even know why you bother being friends with her!”

“Because I _want_ to be friends with her, OK?”

She jumps in to back Emily up. Nothing winds up Katie more than them putting up a united front. “It’s called free will, _babes_ ,” she says, with a smile, tilting her head.

Katie’s mood darkens. “You’re always turning up and poking your fucking nose in, just piss off. No one wants you here.”

That one stings, cuts her to the quick, but she’ll never let Katie know that. She lets out a breath, tries to steady herself. Her fists curl, itching to strike, but she holds it in. Just.

Be the bigger person.

***

There’s some tutting and swearing behind them, and Cook appears, forcing his way to the front of the gathered crowd. It’s four or five deep now, she guesses, but his voice cuts across everything, seemingly oblivious to the tension.

“Girls, girls, can’t we all be friends?” he asks, grinning as he puts one arm around her, and the other around Emily, “Like these two?”

She’s never been so grateful for him bounding in and distracting everyone. Except, there’s a glint in his eye. He’s not finished.

If you say anything else. I will fucking kill you.

“So,” he announces, pulling them closer, “You make this before or after you shagged her, Ems?” he asks, motioning toward the painting,

The argument with Katie pales into insignificance now.

Her cheeks burn with telltale embarrassment, and she hates herself for it. She can’t quite believe he’s actually said it out loud. The worst thing she imagined about tonight is happening, before her eyes. It takes her a few moments to fully register what’s going on.

The world really can stop. It feels like it’s falling around her ears.

They both wrestle from his grip at roughly the same time, and she sees this blur of Emily, in front of her, and the world shifts back into gear again. The reactions of those around them seem to dawn with dizzying speed, and yet, at the same time, with an agonising slowness.

“What’s he talking about? Is it true?” Katie asks, eyes wide, looking between them both. “Is it?” she repeats.

Neither of them speak.

Emily turns on Cook immediately, because he’s got no idea of the damage he’s done. “You fucking prick!” she spits, hard, angry, wounded, and pushes him square in the chest.

“Emilio, calm down!” he backs away, warily.

“Calm down?” she yells, hearing her voice struggle to stay loud, “What the fuck, Cook?! You dick!” she reaches for him, wanting to get at him any way she can, but she’s pushed away by some boy, twice her size that she’s never even seen before.

Emily catches her before she falls, and all she wants is go back across to Cook and punch him. She doesn’t care that everything they’re saying is fuelling the fire, that Katie, that Rob, that everyone will know because of how they’re acting. Her mum would say the best reaction is no reaction at all, but she’s not here, seeing Cook stupidly grinning at her because he’s centre of attention. She’s not here, seeing Emily so upset, eyes streaming with tears. She shouldn’t do anything at all, she should leave with Emily just like she wanted and leave Cook to deal with all of it, but she can’t.

It’s not what he’s said that matters, but where he’s said it. She’s so close, perilously close to losing it. Emily doesn’t deserve to be hurt like this, and there’s too much of everything – hated, anger, fear, frustration – coursing through her without any kind of outlet. If he stands still much longer she won’t be responsible for what she does. Fuck the consequences. Roundview and its bullshit liberal soft punishments can’t touch her.

All their voices blend together in one barrage of noise: Emily, Freddie and Katie, Cook, Perry, and her own, somewhere underneath it all. The only clear sound? Her heart pounding fast and hard – too fast, too hard – in her chest. It had to happen eventually, but there were better ways than this. Ways that weren’t so completely devastating to Emily. She could take the pain, the enforced shame, but Emily? Thinking of that makes her hurt that little bit more.

“Naomi man, I was just saying what everyone else is thinking!” he shrugs, but there’s fear in his eyes.

All the while, Katie’s there, screaming incessantly now, “Tell me, Emily! It’s her, it’s _her_ fault!”

Emily’s voice overlaps hers, bitter, breaking, on the verge of tears. “You’ve got no idea what you’ve done.”

He blinks a few times, and then the reality of it seems to settle in.

“It was a joke!” he holds up his hands in defence. “Fucking hell!”

“A joke?!” Emily lurches toward him again, angrier than she’s ever been.

She tries to grab hold of Emily before she gets near Cook, but she’s not quite fast enough, and watches helplessly as Emily surges toward him with purpose. Perry gets her instead, and it looks like he’s going to calm things down, until he approaches Cook, looking him straight in the eye.

“You’re fucking the joke, mate!” he states, shaking his head in disgust.

A few moments later, he takes a swing at Cook and makes contact. Cook staggers back, surprised, and clutches his nose briefly, before he throws a punch back, square on the left side of Perry’s jaw. There’s some squealing and screaming from the girls present then, Katie included, and she hears Emily saying “please stop,” over and over as she tries to pull Perry away. JJ and Freddie rush in as Cook has Perry pinned to the floor and they drag him off. Freddie shouting “Calm down, mate” to the point of hoarseness as he tries to make himself heard. Cook’s having none of it, and goes for Perry again. Now people she doesn’t even know are getting involved, and it’s escalating before her eyes.

She’s lost the thirst for the fight, she just wants this finished with, wants to make sure Emily’s safe.

In all the chaos and movement, she loses her.

“Find someone else to lez it up with!” Katie screeches, coming at her out of nowhere, “Keep your fucking hands off my sister!”

“Get the fuck off me!” she swats Katie’s hands away with her free arm, dodging her attempts to scratch or punch.

Katie catches her eye, and it’s clear she sees her as the villain. She wants to say something then, to declare it’s was all her fault, just like before, at the party when they were at school, to get it over and done with. Katie _had_ to know. She readied herself for when the inevitable. The dim flicker of them in a fight, not-quite teenagers, egged on by half their form, flashes up in her mind.

“You never did fight back! All mouth you are!” she taunts, slapping her hard across the face. “Don’t you dare come near Emily again!”

“Katie, for fuck’s sake!” Freddie yells, and attempts to pull her away. She struggles hard against him. “Calm down!”

“You need help, Katie!” she steps back with a hand to her cheek, working her jaw to stave off the burn of it, stunned.

“No, _you_ need the help!” Katie yells, not ready to give in. “Haven’t you done enough now?”

“No, not nearly enough,” she replies, steely, looking Katie right in the eyes.

There’s no response. In fact, she’s stunned her into silence for the first time in their lives. It’s glorious. Of course, Katie has no real idea what she means, that despite appearances, she’s not actually intent on wrecking Emily’s life, but rather, being a part of her life instead. The more Katie protests, threatens, and pushes her away, the more determined she is not to give up.

The sting of the slap was worth it just for that.

***

Greg, Doug, and Harriet drift into view as they weave through the gathered onlookers, with some security men at their side, walky-talkies blaring static. She turns, tries to warn the others, but it’s too late.

Oh fucking hell.

The sight of them is a sure sign of how bad things have gotten, but when she finds Rob toward the back of the group, it’s driven home, and she feels terrible. He’s pale, stood stock still, with his mouth slightly open, utterly confused. Seeing him makes her remember Emily, momentarily thrown by Katie’s attack. It crosses her mind that she might’ve left, she wouldn’t be surprised if things had gotten too much for her and she needed some space. She glances round one last time, wondering where she might be, hoping that maybe Effy’s found her somehow in all this mess, and they’ve made a break for it to the car park, but she hasn’t seen her for a while either. Then, she sees a flash of the cherry pattern on Emily’s dress and goes toward it, finding her, right in the middle of everything, in between Cook and Perry, Freddie holding Cook by the collar of his polo top, and JJ talking at the others as he hovers between Perry and Emily. They both look too angry to listen to anything. She takes her chance and grabs, pulling Emily back with an arm threaded around her middle. Emily’s still angry, and struggles against her, flailing and kicking. She dodges it all except for when an elbow connects with her ribs, and she flinches at the stab of pain.

“It’s me, it’s me,” she says, struggling to make herself heard over the noise. She pulls Emily closer, brushes her hair – now tousled and messy – out of the way, “Don’t do this, Ems. He’s not worth it. Don’t give him the satisfaction” she whispers. Emily relaxes and she draws back her arm, freeing her. “Let’s go. Let’s get out of here.”

Doug’s too-loud voice booms out through the whistling megaphone, “Enough! Enough!” and everything grinds to a halt.

Wordlessly, as the lights come up to their full brightness and people start to sneak out before they get questioned, she takes Emily’s hand, laces their fingers together and leads her away as Greg and Harriet start shouting at everyone, incandescent with rage that their perfectly put together little function is now in ruins. She only gets snatches of words as the move, what “bitter disappointments” Cook and Perry are, how they’ve “ruined everything” and “cast a shadow over the evening.” She feels some guilt, because it’s partly her fault, things were starting to fall apart when she and Katie argued, for the umpteenth time, but after that, it just snowballed and took on a life of it’s own. Everyone watches in silence as they’re escorted away by the security, with some other boys, flanked by Harriet, Doug, and Greg.

She knows everyone is watching them, but there are only two people in the room who are really looking, and that’s Katie and Rob, almost able to feel their eyes, boring into the back of her head. She daren’t look back, for fear of what she’ll see when she does.

***

Emily grips her hand surprisingly tight as they go along the corridors. Every sound is magnified in the stillness. Their bodies are fired up with adrenaline, and the thrill of escaping, so they pick up speed, almost running; Emily’s heels tip-tapping just behind her as she tries to keep up. She’s not entirely sure where she’s taking her, but with the mood everyone’s in, all she’s bothered about is putting distance between them and everyone else. There’s no such thing as neutral ground here, everything reminds her of someone or something. Before she realises, they’ve gone all the way upstairs, to the atrium near Harriet’s office. When she reluctantly lets go of Emily’s hand, and they catch their breath, backs against the railings, hearing the gym emptying below them, she can’t help but laugh.

“What’s so funny?” Emily asks, confused and she’s reminded how massively inappropriate it is to laugh given what’s just happened.

Nice move, Campbell.

“Look where we ended up,” she points toward the poster on the wall, with student debt advice in huge, glaring red font.

“Oh,” Emily says, shyly, “this is where I asked you to model for me,”

She takes a breath to gather herself. “Quite the adventure since then.”

Emily smirks. “Yeah. This wasn’t exactly what I imagined would happen when I invited you to the exhibition.”

“Me either,” she glances over, quickly, seeing Emily look cautiously back. “The fight, yeah, but, the rest? No. Sorry your night got ruined. Really,” she lets herself look longer this time, so Emily knows she means it. “Are you alright?” she’s talking in a strange, soft little tone that she slides into when she’s with Emily.

When Emily smiles her barely there smile, butterflies swarm unannounced in her stomach, and for the first time, she doesn’t wish them away.

“I’ll be fine. Don’t worry,” Emily replies with a horrible, practised ease, and she wonders how many times she’s said that to Katie, her parents, Perry, or her, without really meaning it. She inches closer to her, despite her nerves, and their elbows are almost touching on the railing. Sort of inevitable really, especially with Cook gatecrashing, and Katie,” Emily sighs, and looks off sadly. “I was stupid to think this would just stay between us. That I could paint that picture and no one would care.”

“Don’t say that,” she turns to look at her, feeling a twinge of pain. “It’s not stupid.”

“Oh, I’m sorry for elbowing you,” Emily reaches, as if to touch her, comfort her, but stops short.

“It’s OK, no broken bones,” she laughs it off, touching the spot, ignoring that it will probably bruise. “Anyway, Cook’s a twat. I’m sorry your dad had to find out so –” she falls silent, unsure how to end the sentence.

“Publicly?” Emily fills in.

She nods, “Something like that.”

“Oh, he’ll get over it. Eventually.”

“You think?” she turns, genuinely shocked by her answer.

“He likes to bury his head in the sand. Mum does too. He’ll just ignore what happened. But, there’s a perk to being his favourite. He’ll forgive anything.”

I hope so. I really fucking hope so.

“He will,” she comments, keeping her other thoughts to herself.

“Anyway, my dad actually likes you, so that helps. Mum just thinks you’re a bad influence,” Emily chuckles.

“Really? Fuck, well, at least one Fitch likes me,” she nods, smiling.

Emily’s breath hitches, and she realises what she’s said. _Fuck_.

“I meant … I didn’t mean,” she stops herself, mortified. “I can never say the right thing!” she rolls her eyes skywards, cursing herself inwardly.

“I know what you meant,” Emily says, softly, turning to face her. “I’m still pleased you came, though.”

“You are?”

“Of course, you got to see the painting, and …”

Suddenly, Emily’s very close.

“And?”

Her heart starts to pick up, speeding even faster when Emily touches her cheek tenderly. They hover, inches apart on the edge of a kiss. Emily wets her lips, and it feels like she can’t breathe, in the best of ways.

“Who did that?” Emily asks, the mood broken when touches her cheek again, tracing the mark Katie left behind.

“Guess.”

“Katie!” Emily exclaims. “What the fuck is wrong with her?!”

“Me. Apparently,” she smirks. “Anyway, it’s been a long time coming hasn’t it?” she tries to brush it off, smile it away like Emily’s been doing, and keep everything light.

What they’re dancing around is painfully obvious.

“You still don’t deserve that.”

“Even after everything I did?” she asks, question slipping out before she realises.

So much for light.

Emily hesitates. “I was so angry at you today, that I could’ve hit you, but what would it achieve? I know you’ve been hurting. I was wrong to leave you this afternoon,”

“No, you were right to do it,” she stops short of saying that it killed her, that she drowned herself in alcohol. “I deserved it. I shouldn’t have left you that morning. I was confused. A mess. I didn’t know what to do.”

There’s only so much she can say, of course. This ground is old. Toiled already.

Emily shakes her head, purses her lips closed, shutting herself down. “What _are_ we even doing, Naomi?”

She chews on her lip, worry building. “I don’t know,” it’s an honest answer, even if it feels like a copout. “I just –”

Why can’t you just tell her you stupid, stupid fucking idiot!

“I get it. It’s difficult … I should just go,” Emily says, resigned. Sad. Just like earlier this afternoon.

This time, she can’t let Emily go. She has to put up a fight.

“No!” she exclaims, needlessly reaching for her. “Not again.”

“Too much shit’s happened. We’re not in the right place to talk about this,” Emily turns away. “You’re _definitely_ not in the right place.”

She should be used to this feeling by now, the sickness, the dull, gnawing ache that spreads through her at Emily’s words; the sadness seeping out from her skin like smoke, but she’s not.

“Look, I’ll make it easy. I’ll go.”

“You can’t,” she pleads, desperate. “Not like this.”

Emily shrugs, “I’ve done it before.”

There it is, that sweet, soft voice, killing her with its kindness.

She inhales sharply, feeling that blow strike her harder than if Emily _had_ hit her.

“Don’t. Please.”

The voice that comes out is small, barely there. It sounds like another girl, from another place. She’s only heard it twice before. Once when Emily kissed her at that party, right before Katie barged in. Then again when Emily kissed her on the night of the sketch sitting: the catalyst for everything. Emily starts to walk away, leaving her standing by the railings. Her every step is heavy, and she sees her hand go up, to brush away what she assumes are tears.

“No, Emily, you’re not going anywhere!” she yells, and it echoes back at her. “I’m not letting you leave!” she moves forward, diminishing the gap between them.

“Why?” Emily asks, pained, not turning back to face her as she stalls on the third stair.

She takes a deep breath, lungs full to bursting, body rigid as she teeters on the edge of confessing. Emily ignores her, and carries on down the stairs, lower and lower, farther and farther. Step four, step five, step six. It’s now, or never.

“Because I’m in love with you!” It’s a broken statement, caught high in her throat. A violent sound. Almost like an insult.

“What!?” Emily turns so fast she practically whips her head off her shoulders, and she runs back up the steps twice as fast she went down them.

She’s not sure if that’s out of anger or shock.

“You heard.”

“Naomi,” Emily swallows, her voice breaking, “why didn’t you just–”

She interrupts, “Tell you?” she laughs, despite herself. “Because I’m me. Because I have to make things harder than they need to be. Because I’m an idiot!” she puts a hand to her forehead and rubs.

Every sentence is a relief, gradually lifting the burden she’s been carrying, pound by pound.

“No,” Emily says, with a shake of her head. “No, you’re not. Not at all,” she’s fighting not to cry.

The butterflies swarm again.

She steps forward. Two carpet tiles separate them.

“I’ll probably never be brave enough to say this again, so once I start, that’s it, no interrupting, nothing.”

“OK,” Emily nods, eyes wet with unshed tears.

She swallows hard, hearing her heart hammering away in her chest; deafening her, like it has so many times before. Her nerves are getting to her now, making her mouth dry, and her body shiver; veins coursing with too much adrenaline. She looks down, and then back up, locking eyes with Emily, determined to see this through. This is her truth. This is her everything. Once Emily knows, there’s nothing left to hide. In fact, there’s nothing left at all.

“I don’t talk about, how I feel, because,” she pauses, closes her eyes, and opens them again, persevering. “If I do, it’s just ammunition for people to use against me. All I do is disappoint people.”

Emily whimpers, and a lone tear rolls down her cheek, and she knows why. Emily’s felt that disappointment. Emily’s seen it all, years and years of it, unfurling before them both, silently. Emily’s heard that ammunition fired back, deafening them both across playgrounds, echo in the cubicles of bathrooms, never quite drowned out by the forceful surge of a tap, running unattended into an unplugged sink.

She closes the gap between them, wiping that tear away. She cups Emily’s face, briefly, making sure she’s looking at her, “But, I never expected to feel like this …” she exhales a shuddering breath. “To feel like I can’t control anything. That I can’t control me.”

“Let go,” Emily replies, choked. “Trust me.”

Her hands drop. Those four words are enough. Are the tiny push she needs to make her risk it all. To jump, to fall, knowing that Emily will catch her. The weight she’s been carrying lifts completely. She’s got nothing to lose.

“Sometimes, in here,” she stops, taps over her heart. “It’s too much, and I don’t know what to do with it …” she tails off, it’s getting too hard to speak. “You make me feel all these things, Emily…” she stumbles, tongue-tied, repeating herself. “But, I have to do it. I have to let you in again, and it’s terrifying,” her voice grows uneven, close to breaking again.

“Oh, Naomi…” Emily says, voice heavy with sadness, hand clasping over her mouth.

Words are rushing through her mind out of order, bouncing back and forth, streaming of her mouth in one huge rush, and it’s nothing like the eloquent, impassioned declaration she’s imagined for so long.

“Because, you’re you, you’re Emily, and, you make this shitty world, _my_ shitty world, better. I can’t just be friends anymore. I tried to fight it. To forget what happened, but I can’t,” she shakes her head, looking at Emily through bleary eyes. “I know you feel the same …I’ve always known,” she swallows hard, struggling to carry on, voice failing her when she needs it most. It doesn’t sound like her anymore. It sounds like some ghost of a girl. The girl who she hides within her everyday, and rarely escapes. She’s in full flight now. “Please say we can try? _Please?_. I’ll probably be terrible and break your heart, but –”

She’s silenced when Emily rushes to her, both hands gripping the collar of her dress, and presses their lips together, almost painfully. It’s over just as quickly, and she opens her eyes slowly, fearful, when Emily moves away. The panic at what it might mean, what might be next, is slight, tiny, worthless compared to the relief, and the lightness she feels, because Emily’s happy. Emily’s smiling.

A huge breath rushes out of her at the realisation.

Her heart feels like it’s soaring, winged, and it might fly right out of her chest, straight into Emily’s hands. There’s nothing nagging at the back of her mind, filling her with doubt or telling her to stop. In fact, everything in her is telling her to go. To kiss her again, and again, and again, to make up for all the times she’s wanted to, and couldn’t. To keep hold of her as tight as she can for as long as she can.

Then, as if knowing, Emily’s hands move upward, cradling her face, thumb stroking her left cheek, soothing where Katie hit her, before tracing the shape of mouth, and each lip in turn. She parts them, expectant, and in what feels like slow-motion compared to last time, they move toward each other, and they kiss again, beginning with soft little pecks and building toward slower, deeper, and unhurried ones, like they never really have. She tastes Emily mixed in with the salty remnants of tears. Even though she doesn’t know who they belong to anymore, she does know that they’re happy. It’s strange at first, to kiss without bending, and she smiles against Emily’s lips when she remembers the cherry red heels. Now they’re nearly the same height. One kiss melts into another, and time turns fluid. It’s always like this. It’s why she’s always wanted it to be like this. Every time Emily’s tongue slides against her own, it’s all the answer she needs: I love you. I trust you. I need you. Take me. I’m yours. When one of Emily’s hands begins to stroke her side, grasping for purchase, she sighs into Emily’s mouth – an answer of another kind.

She can feel herself relaxing, drifting as she Emily close, hearing her sigh when she settles one hand low on her waist, and buries the other deep in her hair, trailing through soft, dishevelled curls as their mouths and bodies twist, rediscovering each other. Breathless, and just a little unsteady, she reluctantly breaks the kiss, pulling away as slowly as possible. They look at each other, foreheads pressed together, and Emily nuzzles her nose in an Eskimo kiss, smiling barely. Her heart swells. She doesn’t need to speak now. She can’t speak now. Emily’s rendered her speechless. A feat in itself.

Emily’s studying her, just like she did in the gym, as if checking she’s real. It wouldn’t be far from dreams she’s had, and it was on those morning’s she wished she could cling on to the feeling and carry round that fragment of happiness with her, just to dull the edges of another day without her. The only thing that makes it real? The cool fabric of Emily’s dress between her fingers and the warmth of Emily’s skin on hers, the look in Emily’s eyes when she finally said she loved her. Things like that can’t be faked, no matter how vivid your imagination. She’s sure she’s blushing, and has a stupid smile on her face, but she doesn’t really care. It’s been such a long time since she’s felt anything other than hurt or angry, that she gives herself over to it entirely. She feels safe and complete again, lost in that same dizzy euphoria she felt upon waking up next to Emily for the first time. She never wants it to go away.

Then, Emily smiles, bright, perfect, and kisses her once more; tentative and soft, like it’s their first all over again.

Maybe it is.


	7. Author’s Notes/Acknowledgements

When I began writing this, over two years ago, I never imagined where it would take me. It was a little story, born from a simple idea, but like the two girls who feature in it, this one took on a life of its own. Circumstance means this has taken much longer than I thought to complete, and I’ll be honest with you, there were times when I didn’t think I ever would, but support from you, in the form of comments and questions, and support from friends – too many to mention, you all know who you are, and I can’t thank you enough – helped me to achieve this. You’re all here, in the fabric of this. You’ve made it what it is. Without you, I never would have posted it at all.

It’s not quite what I imagined when I first plotted out the story, but I’m both pleased, and proud of what’s here, even if it isn’t perfect. This feels like the end of an era, and it’s probably the closest I’ll ever get to writing a novel. These girls, and their amazing alter egos mean so much to me, and that sounds like a cliché, especially now, with nostalgia doing the talking, but it’s true. They’ll always have a special place in my little heart.

Thank you to every single one of you took the time to read even the smallest part of this story. It’s been an amazing journey.  



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